An ad campaign with no end in sight

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

My cursor hovers over the "cancel" button. A simple click and I will save anywhere between $200 and $300 per month. If fingers could talk, they would be screaming, "Do it. Do it NOW."

But my brain won't send the downward movement to the fingers. The brain is saying, "Beware. There will be consequences."

The brain is overly cautious because I am considering canceling my monthly payment to Google. And, quite frankly, the idea of crossing Google scares the heck out of the brain, and every other part of my being.

For the past few months, I've been experimenting with Google AdWords. The concept is simple: I create a two- or three-line business ad that appears to the right of Google search results. When somebody searches for something related to my business, hopefully my ad appears and the inquisitive user clicks on it. Somebody at Google (I assume an intern) actually keeps track of the clicks and charges me for each one. I can see the results via a series of indecipherable pie charts and spreadsheets that a senior Google employee dreamed up.

This is the problem with doing business in cyberspace. Sometimes one must make assumptions as in, "I ASSUME nobody is royally screwing me." I'm not accusing Google of any financial hanky-panky, mind you. It's just that after a few months of this "pay per click" marketing campaign, the only thing I can say with certainty is that Google is making a monthly profit off me. An actual customer has yet to step forward and admit that yes, they found me by clicking on my puny Google ad.

So now I'm faced with the frightening dilemma of whether to cancel my AdWords account or, to put it more bluntly, fire Google. Normally I would not give this a second thought. Over the years I've fired accountants, stock brokers, building subcontractors and mechanics. All were let go for the same reason: I wasn't satisfied with the service they were providing.

Unfortunately, my bricklayer does not wield the same power as Google, a company that more or less controls the human race due to the vast amount of knowledge it has accumulated and seems to have no trouble sharing. Want to see somebody's backyard? Google Earth at the ready. Who knows? Maybe Google's satellites can catch the homeowner when she is sunbathing topless.

Any desire to build a weapon out of Christmas lights and a kitchen sponge? Chances are Google has a recipe and can even point you to the closest hardware store in case you are missing a few ingredients. Purchase them with the handy Google wallet and share your creation with foreign bad guys using Google Translate.

This is precisely why I do not want to upset anybody at Google. For if I hit "cancel," I can only imagine what might happen:

An alarm bell will sound in Google's Mountain View, Calif., headquarters. Immediately my photo will appear on all employee screens as well as in the Google cafeteria. From there, Google will commence the drill it practices daily. One employee will find my credit card numbers and "accidentally" purchase $250,000 worth of non-returnable lumber from Oregon. Certainly Google knows my address so the delivery truck will have no trouble finding my house and dumping the contents on my front lawn.

When I step outside to complain, Google cameras will stop photographing the topless sunbather and instead videotape my screams, rants and uncontrollable crying. The video will immediately be uploaded to YouTube (conveniently owned by Google) and placed on the home page with the title, "WATCH THIS VIDEO AND THE SCREAMING GUY WILL SEND YOU A FREE IPAD!" My cellphone number will scroll across the screen throughout.

Once I realize Google workers are behind this, I will contact them, most likely from a pay phone. After a lengthy hold time, featuring a recorded message that repeatedly says, "Thanks for contacting Google. We already know why you're calling," a Google operator will inform me that all of this shenanigans will stop if I extend my AdWords account for another month. Or, better yet, sign up for the "five year, direct withdrawal from your back account" plan.

Now my cursor is moving away from the "cancel" button. Instead it goes to the "search" box. I type my own name.

Do I hear a sinister laugh coming from my computer speakers?

Age is nothing more than an intricate equation

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


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

"How old is he?" I asked.

"Twenty-two months."

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

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

"Sure. Whatever."

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

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

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

"The what?"

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

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

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

"So what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

Next, I called my dentist to schedule an appointment.

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

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

"Pardon me?"

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

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

"Sounds good to me."

Finally I called my insurance agent.

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

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

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

I Owe My Sanity to Google

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

Whenever I fly, I always scan the passengers boarding the plane and wonder if there is an air marshal in my midst. Is it the gray-haired gentleman carrying the briefcase and texting incessantly on his smartphone? Or is it the twentysomething female watching "Eat Pray Love" on her iPad? Maybe it's the teenager bobbing his skull to whatever is emanating from his headphones. I don't know what the age qualifications are to be an air marshal these days.

Once the plane takes off, I lose interest in my personal game of "Who's Packing Heat?," preferring instead to take advantage of Wi-Fi, should the plane offer it. I now can honestly say that an Internet-equipped airplane saved me from a possible encounter with an air marshal.

The incident occurred shortly after I boarded a flight to San Francisco. Somewhere over Iowa, my seat began vibrating. Gently at first and then more violently until I was forced to hold onto my half empty Diet Coke can to keep it from tumbling on to the floor.

I felt the shaking in my back, then my rear end. Finally my whole body seemed to be one giant tremor. During my first visit to Southern California, I had the dubious distinction of experiencing a minor earthquake. The shaking lasted less than five seconds and I quickly dozed back to sleep but not before thinking, "Californians are such wimps. I can't believe they whine about these things."

But seat 21F felt like being stuck in the middle of a magnitude 9.0 catastrophe. Eventually I realized the source; a foot from the passenger behind me. I hadn't seen that much twitching since Herman Cain was asked a foreign policy question. I am a fairly tolerant flier, but this was too much. I raised up slightly, a necessary maneuver when turning around in an airplane seat. Peering over my headrest, I saw a balding man in his early 30s. He was clearly expecting the confrontation and had his response at the ready.

"Sorry dude. I have restless leg syndrome."

And with that, he returned to his Kindle and his happy foot. Meanwhile, it took all my willpower to avoid replying, "That's weird. I have 'Punch a Guy in the Face Syndrome,'" which surely would have gotten an air marshal's attention.

Restless leg syndrome? What is that exactly? With 250 passengers packed like sardines in a tin can for four hours, who isn't restless? Why is this guy the only one demonstrating?

In situations like this, it pays to have Google at your disposal. I quickly typed "restless leg syndrome" into the search box and discovered that, yes, there is such a malady. It has its own website and even a foundation although both sites refer to it as "restless legs syndrome." Plural. Thankfully, this guy seemed to have the singular version.

Reading further, I discover that RLS is a lifelong condition, runs in families, affects women more than men and makes sleeping and traveling difficult.

For whom, exactly?

Realizing there were three more hours to go, I Googled, "What to do when sitting near somebody with restless leg syndrome?" I received 10.7 million hits and was prepared to read all of them if it would make the shaking stop. But I couldn't find any suggestions for me. Instead, all the articles focused on the restless leg's owner.

I donned headphones and began watching a YouTube video, entitled "How To Cope With Restless Leg Syndrome." Maybe there was something I could suggest to him. The narrator said to try, among other things, magnesium supplements, warm baths, knitting and massages.

So much for that idea. I'm happy to talk to strangers on planes, but massages are out of the question. I glanced at my watch again. Only two hours and 57 minutes to go.

I continued watching and was heartened to hear the narrator say the shaking would probably go away. Miraculously it did, just moments later. I glanced back and discovered the passenger had fallen asleep. I was now free to resume my flight in peace, thanks to a little patience and a thirst for knowledge as opposed to confrontation. If he woke up and started twitching again, I vowed not to go ballistic on him, as I now know that RLS is something that cannot be controlled easily.

Besides, who knows? The guy might be an air marshal.

Birthday wishes for the hard of hearing

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


I have recently been made aware of how loud certain sounds can be, right down to the exact decibel.

For example, I now know that normal speaking volume is between 60 and 70 decibels while whispers hover between 20 and 30 decibels. I know this because a recent USA Today article detailed how Virgin Atlantic Airways hired a "whispering coach" to instruct crew members in the fine art of softly waking first-class passengers on flights between New York and London. Note to coach passengers: The article stated you will not be receiving similar courtesy, so be prepared for a Virgin Atlantic flight attendant to scream "RISE AND SHINE!" in your ear should you ever doze off over the ocean.

I also know that the average rock concert emits noise volumes somewhere between 110 and 140 decibels. I obtained that information while researching my soon-to-be-15-year-old daughter's sole birthday desire: a pair of hip, trendy and, oh yes, very expensive headphones. When I was her age, I too listened to music via headphones. Of course this was only because I got tired of the inevitable knock on my bedroom door and the command that followed. Both came from my father.

"(Naughty Dad word) TURN IT DOWN!!!"

I rarely heard him as I was too busy listening to my steadily growing collection of vinyl albums. Anything by Journey or Styx really seemed to amplify his blood pressure. Eventually I saved enough cash to purchase a pair of oversized headphones with a black, coiled cord that stretched from my bed across the room to my Radio Shack all-in-one AM/FM stereo with cassette recorder/player. The stereo cost $250; the headphones were 20 bucks.

My daughter's headphones were priced around $300, stereo not included. But who needs a stereo today when you can cram an entire record collection into an MP3 player the size of a matchbook? Gone are the 4-foot speakers that could double as loveseats if flipped on their sides. Today it's all about the headphones. With the proper set, headphone manufacturers insist the listener can clearly make out the triangle AND the piccolo in any of Mozart's symphonies. Don't believe them? Just ask the music celebrity hired to appear in the ads.

And, of course, the last thing I want is for my precious teenage daughter to be deprived of listening to music in the exact vein as internationally renowned rap moguls and rock stars. I was ready to pull out my Visa card.

Then I saw the "safety tips" link on one manufacturer's website.

A pair of headphones shouldn't come with a word of caution, I thought. Warnings are reserved for other products. Extendable ladders, power tools and semiautomatic weapons come to mind.

But headphones?

I clicked on the link and discovered that listening to anything over 85 decibels can cause gradual hearing loss. A handy chart detailing various noise levels accompanied the warning. According to the chart, a food blender's noise level is between 85 and 90 dB.

Now I began getting nervous, knowing full well that most folks probably don't listen to music at margarita mixing levels. Furthermore, does anybody consider a blender to be loud? My dad never stormed into the kitchen and screamed, "(Naughty Dad word) STOP PUREEING!" Surely today's headphones are capable of more.

But how much more? Even though the site listed the noise levels of a garbage truck (100 dB) and jackhammer (110 dB) nowhere did it mention the potential eardrum-splitting capabilities of its product. Imagine that? Instead, it reminded visitors that the headphones currently come in "new limited edition colors" including purple.

I nixed that idea immediately. "I don't want her looking like a bruise," I told my wife.

I found my answer at headphoneinfo.com, proving once again that there truly is a website for every subject in the universe. According to the staff, the headphones in question topped out at more than 110 decibels.

That meant they were not only more costly than the price of a live rock concert, but could be louder. Unless of course your idea of "rock concert" is Neil Diamond.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" I asked my wife.

"We'll just tell her to turn them down if we think they are too loud," she replied.

"Wouldn't she rather have a blender?"

"Very funny."

So now I'm preparing for the inevitable: screaming at my daughter from three feet away and warning her that her 15-year-old ears will soon function like 85-year-old ears if she isn't careful.

I already know what her response will be.

"What?"

Thou Shalt Play Nice When Playing Words with Friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's a Chinese philosophy word."

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

"It's some sort of drug."

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

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

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

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

The Unsolved Case of the Missing Lids

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The price for one lid? $11.66 plus shipping.

The 104-piece set cost $14.99.

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

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

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

A Password for the Ages - and the Aging

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

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

"Please enter your password."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Robot Is In The Driveway

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


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

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

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

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

I'm talking about the driverless car.

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How To Annoy Your Parents In Any Language

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

"TURN OFF THAT STUPID IPOD!!"

"What's your prob, Dad?"

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

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

"I have no idea."

That answers that question.

"What have you learned?" I asked incredulously.

"Cuidar el pez."

"And that means..."

"To take care of your fish."

I feel much better.

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

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

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

"The prez will be elec in Nove."

Makes a big diff, doesn't it?

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

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

"Te acabas de perder su salida!"

"What does that mean?"

"You just missed your exit."

Now I know why she got an 'A.'

Running the country from the three-point arc

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


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

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

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

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

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

Subject: Practice canceled

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

Subject: Equipment suggestion

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

Subject: Injuries during season

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

Subject: Scouting report on next opponent

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

Subject: Snack schedule

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

Subject: Car pools

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

Subject: Playing time

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

Subject: Team name

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

Subject: Orlando tournament

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

Subject: Alternative practice facility?

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

The Perfect Snowball Only Costs Ten Bucks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Super Dilemma only the President Can Solve

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


Dear Mr. President:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Rise of the Middle-Aged Protester

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




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

For me, that means protesting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feeling like a king at 30,000 feet

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


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

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

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

Elite airline status.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grand Rapids, here I come!

Customer Service Never Tasted So Good

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



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

1. Somebody will actually read the column

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

Does anybody there know anything about cable TV?

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

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




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

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

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

Gift Card Tuesday.

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

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

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

Bath & Body Works. Done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That should leave more than enough time for a nap.

It's time to delete the pause button

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

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

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

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

STOP IT!

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

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

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

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

"PAUSE IT!" yelled three voices in unison.

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

"Ready," one daughter said.

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

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

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

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

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

"Hush, Scrooge," came the reply.

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

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

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

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

The Sexiest Man Alive is out there somewhere

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


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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

"Maybe he isn't."

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

"So what's your point?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My daughters WILL become actuaries

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


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

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Facebooking."

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

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

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

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

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

"How come?"

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

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

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

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

"Pick one," I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How did that go?"

"She got most of it right."

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

"Medieval history."

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

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

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

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

I desperately need to talk turkey

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



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

I want to man the Butterball Turkey Talk-Line.

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi, this is Emily from Seattle...

"Is it raining right now in Seattle?"

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

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

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

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

"Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Depends. Are we talking Fahrenheit or Celsius?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You must have hit the stuffing."

"Can I speak to your supervisor?"

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