The puck stops here: How to convert your wife to golf

I have a message for National Hockey League owners and players who are currently locked in yet another tussle that threatens to wipe out the entire season:

Take all the time you need. The longer the strike, the more time I have to convert my wife to golf.

I am a hockey husband, married to a woman who clothes herself in pricey Patrick Sharp Chicago Blackhawks jerseys, DVRs every Hawks game including the ones she attends in person, and even tunes her satellite radio to a station that devotes all 24 hours of programming to . . . hockey?

It is almost comical to hear those "hockey jocks" as I call them, discuss a sport that doesn't currently exist. A typical exchange goes like this:

"Jacques, if hockey were being played right now, who do you think would be leading the Western Conference in assists?"

"Pierre, that's hard to say. Had the Canucks played the Wild last night, I'm sure Henrik Sedin would have chalked up at least two."

"Jacques, I couldn't hypothetically agree more! Let's take a break and then we'll have an exclusive interview with an unemployed Zamboni driver!"

I feel up to the golf conversion challenge after seeing an ad for the PGA of America that seemingly aired during every Ryder Cup commercial break.

A 40-ish man sat in front of his television. His equally 40-ish wife implored him to get off the couch by tossing a golf ball in his line of vision, adding that she was ready to learn the game. The husband sprang from the cushions as if struck by a lightning bolt.

Cut to the two suddenly avid golfers taking a group lesson, simultaneously practicing their putting strokes and playfully needling each other as they discovered their new passion for the links.

"Could that be us someday?" I wondered, thinking of the girl who tried the game on our third date but was basically done with it by our fourth. Nearly 20 years later she still rolls her eyes when I "shhhh" any and all family members, dog included, who dare to breathe loudly near the TV while Ian Poulter, Phil Mickelson or any of the game's finest stand over a four-footer.

"They can't hear you. You do know that, right?" she reminds me.

"This is for the outright lead," I say.

"It's golf. IT'S JUST GOLF," is her frustrated reply before leaving the room.

I still harbor dreams that we can be that couple in the commercial, spending our golden years discovering America via the public courses that dot this nation. We'll arrive for an early afternoon tee time, sneak a well-aged pinot noir into our cart and uncork a second bottle as we end our day in an outdoor Jacuzzi overlooking the 18th green.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First I have to convince her that WATCHING golf can be exciting. My opening argument was simple:

"Golf is always on TV somewhere. Ever heard of golfers going on strike?" I asked her.

"They should strike," she countered. "They should demand wardrobe consultants."

Ouch. Two minutes for roughing.

"They look fine, except for Rickie Fowler," I said.

"Why was this Ryder Cup thing so great?" she asked.

Ahhh, the opening I needed. A flicker of interest on her part. "It was the ultimate golf challenge," I said. "Those guys weren't even playing for money."

"So which guy won?"

"No guy won. Europe won. They played as a team," I said. "The U.S. was winning after fourballs and foursomes, but Europecaught up in singles."

"Wait, they hit FOUR balls? The entire hockey season doesn't last that long."

"They only hit one ball each," I replied. Quickly. "They play with partners. Lowest score wins in fourballs. In foursomes they alternate shots. In singles they don't have partners. It's just one against one. Low score wins."

"When you were watching it, all I saw was a guy in an ugly striped shirt picking up his ball."

"You mean the American?"

"I guess. Did he quit? Hockey players don't quit. They pull the goalie!"

"He didn't quit. He picked up his ball because he had already lost the hole."

"When we were dating, you got mad when I picked up my ball."

"As I recall, you did it in the second fairway."

"Why were you weeping when the Ryder Cup ended?" she asked.

"Because Europe came back and won 14 1/2 to 13 1/2.

"So you get half a point for quitting?"

"No you get half a point for tying."

"They can tie? There's no tying in hockey. They have shootouts. That's what golf needs."

"What do you suggest? Luke Donald hits a tee shot and Bubba Watson stands in the fairway and tries to catch it?"

"I'd watch that."

"There's still golf on TV through December," I said. Just watch it with me. Please? We'll even drink Pinot."

"OK, hand me the remote."

"That's the spirit honey. Wait, what is this?"

"It's Game Six of the Hawks' Stanley Cup victory in 2010. I never get tired of watching it."

"But, but golf is on. Gimme that!"

Ouch. Five minutes for fighting.

Originally posted by Tribune Media Services

COPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM

DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC.

Parents: Have your kids had the photo talk?

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

Recent news events have made it necessary for me to have yet another Big Talk with my daughters.

Both have had the Sex Talk (my wife thankfully handled that one) and the Stranger Danger Talk (I took that one). But now that my 10-year-old is showing an interest in photography, meaning she has discovered the camera on her iTouch, I am forced to sit her down and have the Photo Talk. And it won't hurt her 15-year-old sister to get a refresher course.

Growing up, I never had the Photo Talk. I received a Kodak Pocket Instamatic for Christmas in 1973 and spent the rest of the day snapping pictures of my relatives when they least expected it. I would creep up behind them clutching the flat, rectangular piece of plastic, shout "HEY!" and snap when they turned around. The flashcube, vital unless you wanted to pay for 24 prints of sheer blackness, exploded in their faces. Yet they never demanded I relinquish the film or the developed prints. Back then, incriminating photos were met with gales of laughter, not lawsuits and cash offers. I never thought to take any of my pictures to school and say, "Here's my Aunt Sophie right after she put on her face cream. Let's start the bidding at 50 bucks."

Today the Photo Talk is vital because, next to a driver's license, cameras are a parent's worst nightmare. Tiny lenses seem to be omnipresent. Got an iPad? You have a camera! Got a cellphone? Congratulations! You have two cameras! Got a new washing machine? I'm certain some manufacturer is currently drawing up plans to insert a lens right above the "rinse" button so we can photograph ourselves while applying stain remover.

Since being introduced to the concept of "point, shoot, upload and share," both my daughters have taken thousands of pictures, including self-portraits of their nostrils, molars, elbows and ear canals. Ironically, these are the same girls who threaten to lock themselves in their rooms for three days if my wife and I dare send out the "dorky" holiday card photo we take each year.

Both girls considered their photographic talents to be harmless -- yet until we had the Photo Talk, neither had heard about the exploits of Alexa Dell and Prince Harry.

Alexa is the 18-year-old daughter of billionaire Michael Dell, who pioneered the idea of selling computers over the Internet and also is credited with inventing exorbitant hold times while technical support calls are rerouted to India. I keep trying to add the latter to Dell's Wikipedia page but so far have yet to succeed.

Reports paint Dell as an intensely private man (never mind that his name is on three PCs and two printers in my house) who spends millions on his family's security detail. Unfortunately for Alexa, her allowance may soon be contributing to the security kitty after she allegedly posted photos on her Twitter account, unaware that the sneaky people who run the social networking behemoth have made sure every picture uploaded to Twitter contains other information. The photographer's exact location, for example. It's called geotagging and although it can be turned off, Alexa apparently never figured out how. Neither did her dad's security team; instead they skipped ahead and disabled Alexa's Twitter account.

The Prince, as everyone knows, was photographed in a Las Vegas hotel suite with his hands placed over jewels one won't see in the Tower of London. The grainy image was taken with a camera phone and within days was on display everywhere except milk cartons. I began the Photo Talk by recounting both episodes and then plowed deeper ahead.

"You know that pictures on the Internet are there forever, right?"

"We know, Dad."

"And you know if you're doing something illegal or just plain stupid, somebody could be photographing you, right?"

"We know that, too."

"And you know that if someone else in the picture is doing something stupid, you're going to be guilty by association."

"We know, Dad."

"And never get into a car with someone who offers you candy."

"Dad, you're mixing up your Big Talks."

"Sorry."

Finally, I posed a question.

"Why do you need to take and share so many photos?"

"Because it's fun," my eldest responded. "Don't you wish you had Facebook or Instagram when you were in school?"

No, but probably because I wore glasses and braces until I was 17. I would have uploaded all photos of myself to my orthodontist and optometrist along with a message: "ARE WE ALMOST DONE?"

Meeting dismissed, my girls left the room. Like the other Big Talks, I can only hope my words remain in their heads forever. Just as I can't stop them from texting while driving, neither can I stop them from taking part in today's Photography Revolution or other dangers that technology hath wrought.

I just wish today's cameras still needed a flashcube to function.

And I wish each cube cost $250.

The Hershey's Diet: Love, Support and 20 Extra Pounds

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

I have always fervently supported my children in their extracurricular endeavors. My only rule is that my personal health and safety not be in danger.

With my eldest, now 15, this was never an issue. I felt perfectly safe sitting in the audience watching, listening and occasionally cringing as she labored through piano recitals. Ditto for her various sporting events although often I had to restrain myself from confronting over caffeinated Little League parents. The two years that she spent in competitive cheerleading were a test; several times I was convinced I had suffered permanent hearing loss after spending entire afternoons in gymnasiums pulsating with a combination of hip-hop music and shrieks from mothers whose little darlings had just executed a "round off flip-flop combination," whatever that means.

But my 10-year-old has discovered a new passion, one that I fear will take years off my life if I don't intervene immediately.

She loves to bake. Specifically, she loves to bake desserts.

It started innocently enough. A tin of blueberry muffins here, a batch of chocolate chip cookies there. She looked oh so cute in her little apron while greasing baking sheets. The results tasted delicious, for it's pretty difficult to screw up cookies made from pre-mixed dough. All you need is an adult who knows how to turn on an oven and a timer.

But a recent birthday party netted her a cookbook authored by the Hershey Company. Yes, THAT Hershey. It was actually three separate cookbooks bound into one and it became immediately clear that none of the recipes contained lettuce. Granted, there were a few main-course items sprinkled throughout, but nothing that trainers from "The Biggest Loser" would recommend. Spicy Cocoa Sloppy Joes anyone?

I failed to see the distinction between each book title. "Sweet Treats" was followed by "Decadent Delights," which gave way to "Timeless Treasures." Naturally every recipe contained at least one Hershey's ingredient, easily identified since all were written in capital letters.

Take, for instance, the SPECIAL DARK Truffle Brownie Cheesecake she recently whipped up. Say the name aloud and you can almost feel your belt straining. Even worse, she baked it on a Sunday, when my exercise ritual consists of a two-hour nap in my hammock. Not exactly the proper warm-up for consuming a delicacy that, if you add up the calories, resembles our country's national debt.

As my little girl worked the electric mixer, I glanced over her shoulder and silently read the ingredients: 6 tablespoons of melted butter, 1 1/2 cups sugar, 1 teaspoon vanilla extract, 2 eggs and 1/2 cup of HERSHEY'S COCOA.

That was just the brownie layer. She hadn't even started on the truffle cheesecake part. Skipping ahead, I saw it contained 3 (!) packages of cream cheese, more sugar, more eggs and more vanilla extract. Add 1/4 cup heavy cream and 2 cups of HERSHEY'S SPECIAL DARK chocolate chips. Then toss in a 350-degree oven for 30 minutes and make sure a cardiologist is on speed dial.

I laughed at the last sentence: "Cover and refrigerate leftover cheesecake."

Leftover? Did Hershey really think something like this would go temporarily uneaten? Not when its creator is 10. I ate three pieces because, as I previously mentioned, I am a supportive parent. What choice did I have?

"Daddy, did you really like it?" she asked after I had weakly pushed myself away from the table.

"Like it? I LOVED it," I mumbled, as it's difficult to talk when a layer of cream cheese coats your tongue. "What else is in that book?"

It was like asking Mitt Romney what else he would change about the Obama presidency. Suddenly the floodgates opened as she showed me all the recipes she had marked for future meals. How soon before Thick and Fudgy Brownies with HERSHEY'S Mini KISSES Milk Chocolates graces our table? Or Rich Chocolate Chip Toffee Bars? If I live until Christmas, Holiday Double Peanut Butter Fudge Cookies await.

Realizing that I may have co-created a future five-star pastry chef, I have no choice but to increase my exercise regimen. Twenty minutes on the treadmill has become 30, the spin-class instructor knows me by name and I recently completed a personal-training session with a dude who looks like he's never even heard of the Hershey company.

"Drink lots of water, get plenty of rest and above all, watch your diet," he said.

I'm planning to invite him over for dinner very soon. I dare him to pass on the Fudge Bottomed Chocolate Layer Pie.

The Do-It-Yourself Guide To Not Doing It At All

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

On Father's Day, all dads need to be keenly aware of a very ominous phrase:

Do It Yourself or "DIY" if you are texting.

I'm warning fathers everywhere because many of us, instead of choosing to spend the day playing golf or taking the easy road and WATCHING golf, may opt to tackle that home improvement project we have been putting off since 1987. Maybe it's something as simple as trimming the bushes or painting the porch railing.

Or maybe it is something a little more expansive, a project that will cement our status as the coolest guy on the block because we did it all by our lonesome, saving hundreds of dollars in the process. Neighborhood wives will look at our handiwork, glare at their husbands and say, "Why can't YOU do something like that?"

The DIY label is dangerous because it lulls us into thinking we can actually accomplish something on our own. Usually it is something we have no business attempting. Over the years, I have gone to hardware stores and seen DIY slapped on brochures telling us how easy it is to build a backyard deck. I've seen it on satellite-dish installation kits. Several of my neighbors have dishes, allowing them to receive whatever sporting event is currently occurring on the planet, including senior citizen cricket matches. I thought installing my own dish would be relatively simple until I Googled the subject and realized I could not proceed until I first calculated my azimuth and elevation coordinates, both of which were necessary for aiming the dish toward a satellite floating somewhere in space.

Last September, a 6-ton satellite fell into the Pacific Ocean. At least that's where NASA thinks it fell. No evidence has actually been found. If the space industry's brightest minds can't locate a satellite, how am I supposed to find one? That's why I chose cable instead. The toughest thing to locate when you are a cable customer is the repairman.

When I purchased a swing set for my kids, the salesman said I could hire a three-person crew to install it or I could do it myself. Choosing the latter meant that a truck would dump a large load of lumber and some screws on my driveway and then speed away before I could ask, "Is this the top beam or the bottom?" I wisely employed the crew. Looking back it was probably the best 300 bucks I have ever spent. Defending myself in a lawsuit from an irate parent whose kid was unlucky enough to be on the slide when it collapsed due to my swing set installation ineptitude would have been significantly more expensive.

I found the ultimate DIY project last week while doing some online shopping. Dads, if you wake up on Father's Day and decide this would be a perfect day to become more eco-friendly, then fire up eBay and search, "Wind Turbine Installation Kit."

There, for just $649, a seller will provide you with everything you need to erect one of those oversize windmills in your backyard. According to the American Wind Energy Association, wind currently provides 2 percent of the United States' electricity. But that number could swell to 2.0000001 if a few of us dads put down our Budweisers and exercise a little initiative. Say goodbye to those skyrocketing electric bills, gentlemen; all we'll need keep our beer cold will be a nice steady breeze.


The kit included the following: reinforced fiberglass wind turbine blades, some quadruple layer neodymium magnets, 11-pound magnet wire, a heavy-duty bridge rectifier, some crimp-on ring terminals and a few splice connectors.

Any questions so far?

Oh, sure, we might encounter a few hiccups along the way. But that's what neighbors are for, right? Just walk across the street, find another dad and say, "Jim, can you spare a few minutes to help me align my wind tower?"

Don't count on it. I once asked my neighbor to help me install a ceiling fan and I could almost see the gears spinning in his brain as he struggled to concoct a reason to say no. He relented and helped but it took five hours and I still have yet to experience two of the speeds on my alleged three-speed ceiling fan. Suffice it to say that neither of us have decent wiring skills.

So, dads, before you embark on some technical mission that could result in, at best, a steady stream of profanity and, at worst, paramedics being summoned, remember that some things can be accomplished in solitude more easier than others.

Speaking from experience, I know it takes very little effort to lie in a hammock all day.

Warning! This program is rated NSFCPP

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

I have come to the conclusion that all programming, be it movies, television shows or even content coming from our home video cameras, needs a new rating classification. I call it NSFCPP: Not Suitable for Certain Public Places.

This idea first began percolating 10 years ago when I had LASIK surgery, a brief and relatively painless eye procedure that gives patients 20/20 vision providing they don't mind having a total stranger peel back their corneal flap, causing temporary blindness. Try finding that little-known fact on a LASIK website.

When I entered the waiting room, eight other patients sat in a semicircle, anxiously anticipating their turns. Their soon-to-be altered eyes were glued to a lone flat-screen monitor. On the screen, I saw a rapidly twitching eyeball and a surgical instrument hovering next to it. Then I saw the tool pluck an edge of the cornea and actually lift it. I turned away but not before putting two and two together.

The eye belonged to the patient who had just entered the surgical room. All the other patients were witnessing what was about to happen to them. The macabre scene made about as much sense as running a loop of Evel Knievel's Caesars Palace motorcycle crash in a Harley-Davidson showroom.

Two years ago, I was summoned for jury duty. While I didn't get picked to serve on an actual jury, I did spend an entire day in a waiting room where a lone television was showing "The Jerry Springer Show." Many of the potential jurors were gearing up for their duties as deliberators of justice by arguing whether the man on screen was a "scumbucket" or a "dirtbag" for cheating on his wife. I'm sure that made for interesting voir dire proceedings.

"Mr. Johnson , will you be able to render a fair and impartial verdict?"

"JER-RY, JER-RY, JER-RY!"

"Thank you. You are excused."

Just last week, I sat in my broker's office, awaiting his arrival. Glancing at my watch, I vaguely heard somebody discussing bathroom remodeling.

I looked up and saw the discussion was coming from the overhead TV monitor, which was tuned to HGTV, the Home & Garden network. I found that strange considering U.S. financial markets had been open for two hours.

"How come CNBC isn't on?" I asked the receptionist. "Or Bloomberg Television? Or something finance related?"

"We used to have CNBC," she replied. "But it was upsetting the clients."

Bravo, I thought. At least somebody agrees with my NSFCPP concept. In a world where entire countries are teetering on bankruptcy, why let an elderly investor watch his retirement nest egg lose 30 percent of its value in the time it takes his broker to visit the restroom? Better to watch programs where a half hour is spent discussing proper begonia placement.

Whatever happened to Muzak in public facilities? Nowadays, instead of listening to a Captain & Tennille song on an elevator ride, we are forced to watch CNN on a 2-inch television screen. If that day's news contains a story about a high-rise elevator cable that inexplicably snapped, so be it.

The motion picture industry has a rating system that warns me about potentially offensive content. I can install a V-chip in my home television to block programs that I don't want my children to view. But if an airline wants to show "Alive" as its in-flight movie, I have two choices: close my eyes for the flight's duration or endure a film about a plane crash on a snowy mountain and survivors who resort to cannibalism.

So if you work in a public institution and there's a television, LCD monitor or Jumbotron in your midst, give some thought to what should and should not appear on screen. Below is a partial list of public facilities and corresponding programs that should carry my new rating:

Grocery stores: The entire Food Network.

Doctors' offices: "House M.D.," "Grey's Anatomy," anything starring Dr. Oz and all C-SPAN debates where the subject is health insurance.

Gas stations: Any news footage from the Middle East. I don't need to be reminded why I'm paying $4 a gallon

Hardware stores: All home improvement shows. Some of us will NEVER be able to build a patio deck in two hours no matter how easy the host makes it look.

Public schools: All monitors should be removed immediately. Kids today watch too much television.

Wrigley Field: Sports bloopers. Yes, they are entertaining but bear too close a resemblance to what is actually taking place in front of the spectators.

Put up your #dukes and tweet like a man!

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

I recently drove past my old middle school, stopping to gaze at the faded brick, the worn asphalt and the large grassy playground field, which doubled as an Ultimate Fighting octagon.

The playground was where all disputes were settled. Some quarrels occurred spontaneously; a hurled insult, a return verbal jab and suddenly two bodies were grappling on the turf, surrounded by a crowd of seventh-and eighth-graders shrieking, "FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT!"

Other battles involved lengthy hype and buildup. A first period disagreement lead to a threat of, "meet me on the playground at three." Such challenges spread through the school like wildfire, ensuring a much larger audience when the main event rolled around. I often regret that I wasn't savvy enough to sell tickets for those bouts. I could have made enough to pay for an entire year's worth of school lunches.

The fights themselves rarely lasted more than two or three minutes and always ended in identical fashion: the loser face up on the ground with a knee pressed against his chest and the knee's owner screaming, "Had enough? HAD ENOUGH?"

And with that the two participants went their separate ways. They would frequently be seen eating together in the cafeteria the following day, as if the brawl had never taken place. How simple.

Of course that was before the days of Twitter, where hashtags and @ signs have replaced fists and knees.

Hardly a day goes by when I'm not reading about a "Twitter feud" between celebrities who really should have better things to do with their time and their cellphones. Politicians Twitter feud with students, rap stars feud with country stars and Keith Olbermann feuds with everybody. The most recent feud involved Almost Vice Presidential Daughter Bristol Palin, who tweeted her opposition to gay marriage and immediately found herself taunted at the virtual playground by the likes of "Jersey Shore" star JWoww.

If those two settled their dispute on a playground, I would be first in line for a ticket. Better yet, I would install bleachers.

Why are Twitter feuds so popular? Unlike playground brawls, they don't appear to have winners. The sparring continues until one of three things occur:

Another celebrity enters the fray, prompting one of the original contestants to shift his or her rage.

The opponents runs out of verbal jabs that can be delivered in 140 characters or less.

A participant gets a cellphone bill and realizes that Twitter feuds can be expensive. (After this year's Grammy awards, rap star Chris Brown was feuding simultaneously with singers Miranda Lambert and Michelle Branch, along with "Modern Family" star Eric Stonestreet. He soon may be feuding with his accountant.)

The Biography Channel's website recently asked viewers which celebrity they would most like to Twitter feud with. Mel Gibson came out on top with Glenn Beck, Donald Trump and Charlie Sheen jockeying for second place. New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady also garnered votes, yet I can't figure out what he has done to prompt such rage other than he's rich, successful, good looking and married to a supermodel.

Wait, now I'm ticked off. But chances are I will never meet Prince Tom and therefore can't challenge him to put up his well-manicured hands and fight.

Which is precisely why Twitter feuds exist. Twitter remains a quick, easy way to let somebody feel your wrath. True, I can't slug Brady at the playground but I can taunt him via the Patriots' Twitter site. (Brady himself doesn't appear to have a Twitter page.)

"@Patriots No wonder #Brady looks so good. 18 mil a year buys a lot of hair gel"

I feel much better now. In fact, I feel so good that perhaps it's time for me to settle some old scores. True, my feuds will not be followed by millions or pasted into the bodies of national news stories. Some of my opponents may be dead or, like Brady, without Twitter accounts. But if my old high school drama teacher is alive and near a Smart Phone right now, I have a message: You can run but you cannot hide from my tweets.

"Should have cast me in #TheKingandI. #otherguycantsing"

While I'm at it, it's time to get in the face of the opponent who prevented me from qualifying for the Illinois state tennis tournament in 1979.

"Wouldn't you feel better admitting that the ball was CLEARLY in? #liarliarpantsonfire"

Finally, here's one for the David Letterman talent scout who rejected me for a spot on the show 12 years ago:

@Late_Show Pretty please, can I have another chance? #muchfunniernow"

OK, that's not very vicious. But if it doesn't work, I have a message for David Letterman and his entire staff:

Meet me on the playground at three.

Burying Barbie...and other depressing parental duties

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

I am a firm believer in the "Death Comes in Threes" adage, not only for celebrities but also for children's toys. It happened again recently.

First to expire was the backyard plastic pool. Nobody could say it didn't have a long, happy life. From its birth in 1998 when my oldest child turned 1, until 2007 when my second daughter mastered freestyle just enough to swim at the park district pool, it was the highlight of summer. Fill it up with a hose and in minutes it provided refreshment for as many as four squealing kids. I sometimes used it to cool off after a particularly rigorous lawn-mowing session. Sure, my legs protruded over the edges, but who cared? It's hard to be uncomfortable when your children howl in delight as they dump buckets of water on your head.

For the past five years, the pool remained in our basement on life-support systems. My wife and I knew we were done having children, yet we couldn't bear to permanently drain it, so to speak. Maybe we could find a neighborhood toddler to invite over on a scorching afternoon. But where are those little tykes? All the kids in our neighborhood are now interested in cars, makeup and members of the opposite sex. This past week, I faced the inevitable and dragged the now-moldy aqua oval to the curb. I said a silent prayer, thanking it for all the happiness it had provided.

While I grieved, death struck again. This time the victim had a name and it was Barbie.

My youngest, during her annual room-cleaning ritual, announced she no longer played with her collection of dolls that ranged from the original, perfectly normal-looking Barbie to the punk-rock Barbie with multicolored hair and a rebellious sneer.

"But what will happen when your friends come over this summer? Don't you want to dress them up and have them talk to each other?" I asked. "What will you do instead?"

She briefly glanced up from her video game, giving me the answer in the process.

Now I had to once again huddle with my wife and make a decision. Gently place the Barbies alongside the pool and wait for the trash collector or hope for a miracle cure via a garage sale or eBay that could breathe new life into their worn-yet-loved plastic parts? It's a dilemma we have yet to solve.

Death paid its third visit last weekend, when I attempted to inflate the water slide purchased at Toys R Us just three years ago. Calling this thing a slide is sort of like calling the Spider-Man float in the Macy's parade a balloon. This was not a slide one could blow up using one's lungs. Instead, it came with an electric air pump and an installation DVD. Apparently the slide manufacturer thinks everybody's backyard has a DVD player nearby.

When fully inflated, the slide rose more than 15 feet into the air, sending water cascading over the sides and soaking the lawn in the process. It weighed nearly 100 pounds and caused my back to scream as I unfurled it in the yard - but once inflated, it provided hours of entertainment. Not once did I sense it would succumb to the "We're too old for this thing" fate.

This year, the ritual began anew. I lugged the slide up from the basement, hosed off the spider webs, secured it with eight (yes, eight) stakes and flipped the air pump's power switch. The slide began to rise.

That's when I noticed the impending signs of death.

The slide ascended to about 11 feet and then tried in vain to go higher. It gasped, attempting to hold more air, but it was no use. It stayed three-quarters high, unable to accommodate two girls already in their bathing suits and watching silently. Finally one spoke.

"What's wrong with it?"

"I think there may be a hole somewhere," I said.

Closer inspection revealed that there were actually many holes. A disease called "overuse by growing (and weightier) kids" had infected the slide's innards. Patches would do no good.

"I can go buy another one and be back in half an hour," I told my daughters.

They looked at each other, making a silent sisterly decision.

"That's OK. I think we've outgrown it," my oldest said.

And with that they went inside, changed out of their bathing suits and called friends. I was left sitting in the backyard on the swing set. It was 14 years old and starting to creak. It also represented the last reminder of childhoods that disappeared far too fast.

I gazed at the wooden structure and spoke.

"Stay a little longer. Please?"

Knowledge x Weight = Diploma

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


I am seriously considering steering my 15-year-old daughter toward a career in orthopedics. How else will she treat the chronic spinal condition that she is developing as a product of our nation's public school system?

There are multiple reasons for her poor posture. She is a teenager so, by law, she is required to slouch at least 90 percent of her waking hours. Her calcium intake is poor, unless one considers Milk Duds a source of that bone-strengthening nutrient. She also would stand much straighter if she weren't constantly stooping down to search for whatever article of clothing is crumpled under her bed.

Her stance, nutrition and slovenly nature are all correctable. But her impending spinal curvature will not cease unless one of two things occurs:

She commits all her school textbooks to memory.

She stops reading altogether.

Unfortunately, neither is going to happen - even though I'm sure she would be thrilled if I suggested the latter. As a result, she continues to trudge her high school corridors each day carrying the weight of a small boulder on her back.

On a recent morning, I sipped coffee and watched her amble down the driveway to catch her ride. Her backpack was slung over her right shoulder, causing her to tilt precariously in that direction. Her best friend, Haley, waited at the end of the drive, tipping violently to the left since she chose that shoulder for her backpack. Standing together, they looked like teenage Siamese twins who had just been separated.

That afternoon she came home and dropped her backpack on the floor, causing small dishes to shudder in our pantry. I picked up the backpack and was convinced I heard my hernia popping. Once the pain subsided, I retrieved our scale from the bathroom, simply because I wanted to answer the following question: What is the weight of a good public education?

As I reached into the bag and pulled out each book, I channeled my best ringside announcer voice. "In this corner, weighing in at 4.4 pounds, the master of mathematical mayhem, ALGEBRA AND TRIG! And in this corner, tipping the scales at 5.2 pounds, the phenom of earthly phenomenon, WORLD GEOGRAPHY AND CULTURE."

"Dad, you are totally weird."

"And in this corner . . ."

"Dad, there are only two people in a boxing match."

"Quiet, I'm on a roll. Weighing in at a paltry 3.65 pounds, the syllabus of all things Spanish, EN ESPANOL!"

"I'm going to Haley's to study."

"Great. Ask her how her sciatica feels today. And in this corner . . ."

The biology and literature books weighed five pounds apiece. All told, my daughter's textbooks added an extra 25 pounds to her 115-pound frame. No wonder she chooses to buy lunch in the cafeteria rather than bring a brown bag from home. Why make things worse by lugging an apple around?

That night I lay in bed reading my Kindle, which holds 3,500 books and weighs 8.3 ounces. Not pounds, ounces.

"She's going to have shrunk 6 inches by the time she's a senior," I said to my wife, "Her prom dress is only going to need one shoulder strap because the other shoulder won't exist."

"What's your point?"

"My point is, hasn't the public school system ever heard of electronic books? If every kid owned a Kindle, a Nook or something similar, they might stand a chance to reach their full height. At the very least, the basketball team would improve."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"I dunno. Call the principal?"

"You do that, honey."

The next day I did in fact call the principal, who wholeheartedly agreed with my concerns.

"I picked up a book the other day and wasn't sure if I should defend myself or read it," said Dr. Thomas Trengove, principal of her school since 1993.

Trengove said the "weighty" book issue is on administrators' minds. But, like all book publishers, textbook purveyors equate electronic books with shrinking profit margins and are therefore resistant to cramming an entire physics book onto an iPad. Trengrove predicts the conversion will eventually happen but, until it does, his school orders duplicate books for kids with back problems. One set stays at school while the other remains at home.

I can only hope textbook companies come to their senses. For I have another daughter who will enter high school in five years. Based on her current growth rate, her pediatrician said she could be 6 feet tall.

Or 5-foot-7 if she studies really hard.

Don't Drink The Water - Become the Water

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

Over the years, I have had several bit parts in commercials. In actor's terms that means, "blink and you will miss me."

I was the guy in the local Chevrolet spot who said, "New or used. We're ALWAYS making deals." I was the dad in the John Deere Insurance ad who taught his toddler son how to play the piano while mom looked on and smiled approvingly. (Years later, I still can't figure out the correlation between piano lessons and life insurance). Finally, I was the infomercial spokesman who said, "If the only thing standing between you and a new vehicle is a lower monthly payment, then call Drop the Payment RIGHT NOW!"

As video technology accelerates and flat screen monitors appear seemingly everywhere, the casting calls have been getting weirder. Recently, I auditioned to be the guy who appears on the gas pump screen when you begin filling your tank. I have to admit, every time I see that guy, I have an overwhelming desire to toss a lighted match directly at the pump. I prefer to purchase gas in silence; I don't need some perky Gen Y dude saying, "Hi, welcome to Shell. It's good to see you."

Incidentally, I didn't get the part, probably because I improvised dialogue during the audition. I doubt the producers were impressed when I said, "Hi! It's $4.50 a gallon today. Sucks, doesn't it?"

Talking gas pump guy paled compared to the next audition I received in my inbox a few weeks ago. The spot was for the Oklahoma City Water Department. The role called for someone "lovable, funny and spontaneous. An actor with good comic or improv skills is mandatory. He needs comedic chops, but also depth."

So far, so good. After all, I'm an actor. I can certainly fake the lovable and funny part.

Then I saw what role I would be auditioning for.

Water.

That's right, I would be using my comic and improv skills to portray H2O. At least I was auditioning for the lead role.

Like any actor, I tried to "immerse" myself in the character. What does water sound like? Should I gargle during the audition? Open my throat and slam a bottle of Evian? Should I arrive with wet hair, thereby showing the producers that water is with me at all times?

I sought advice from my Facebook friends, who were only too happy to help.

"Be positive. Think 'glass half full.'"

"Do they know your sense of humor is 'dry'?"

"Make it shoot out your nose. That's always funny."

It didn't help that this audition had no script. Like many potential roles that come my way, I am expected to "create" the part rather than read the part. As a result, I get some strange suggestions from casting directors.

"We're looking for a Will Ferrell/Jim Carrey/Ben Stiller type," one director recently said.

"So you want me to impersonate Will Ferrell or Jim Carrey or Ben Stiller?" I asked.

"No. We want you to be Greg Schwem . . . with a little bit of those guys thrown in."

Okaaaaaay.

So now I was faced with creating dialogue for water. I stood in front of the mirror and summoned my inner liquid.

"Without me, you will die." No, too depressing.

"Hey kids! Put me inside a balloon. Fun fun fun!" Not believable enough. Maybe water feels trapped inside a balloon.

"Ever wonder where I go when you flush me? Right back into the Oklahoma City drinking supply!" True, but kind of gross. I can't imagine Will Ferrell saying that.

Then I switched to method acting, opting to become water instead of speaking like water. I crouched down and began shaking violently. My wife passed by my home office, screamed and reached for her cell.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Dialing 911. What is the matter with you?"

"I'm water boiling."

"What do you mean you're boiling water?"

"I'm not boiling water. I'm pretending to be water boiling. It's for an audition."

"Why can't I have a normal husband?"

Finally, after an hour of imagining myself as water in every conceivable form, including being shot from a fire hose, I was ready to accept the audition. Then I read the last sentence of the email:

"Do not submit if you cannot attend auditions in Norman, Okla. No exceptions!"

And, just like that, my dreams were crushed. Again. But if anybody from the Chicago Water Department is reading this, give me a call.

I'm much cheaper than Ben Stiller.

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.

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?"

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.'

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!"

So many friends, so little time

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

Confirm Ignore

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

50,000 Against Healthcare Bill in the next 72 Hours

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

304,059,724 Against Obama’s Healthcare Takeover

Repeal Obamacare

My friend is nothing if not optimistic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just not every hour.