Take the long way please

In my last post, I blogged about the lack of conversation aboard planes . I wrote that I’m a “plane talker” and wondered why so many others didn’t engage in chat at 30,000 feet, particularly on flights lasting more than two hours. Thanks for the responses. It seems some of you agree with my sentiments while others relish the chance for a little solitude.

Now I can see why for, as I write this, I’m on an American Airlines jet bound for Chicago from Orlando. Yes, I’m in first-class but I wish I were anywhere but here.

No sooner had I sat down and buckled in than my seatmate, an attractive woman with blonde hair and a killer smile, casually said, “I hope you don’t mind sitting with two babies.

”Babies?” I replied, looking at her puzzled as she did not have any kids on her lap.Then I glanced down and saw the “kitty carrier” she was cradling. Inside were two gray and white kittens which looked as if they had been born in the terminal just prior to boarding.

“They’ve got great lungs. Especially when it’s time to eat,” she said.

She was right. About 30 minutes into the flight her ”babies” started mewing and did not stop until she fed them milk from a bottle that looked suspiciously like it had been stolen from a six year old’s doll house. When the flight attendant came by seeking drink orders, she handed him the bottle and asked if he could “heat this for about eight seconds.

Not 10 seconds, not five seconds but EIGHT seconds.

The flight attendant looked at the bottle as if she had handed him a live rat. He scurried away but returned about 12 seconds later. She thanked him profusely.

I sat there, unsure of what to do or say. I’m not a cat hater by any means but this was borderline ridiculous. She was cradling the kittens with more care than the presidential advisor who carries the “football” that holds our nation’s nuclear launch codes. Even if I had wanted to make conversation, what was I supposed to say to this woman?“

Pardon the smell,” she said and then I realized that one of her babies had just pooped. Luckily she had brought aboard a product called “Kitty Wipes” to clean up the mess.

It was at this point that I realized two things: One, I had nothing to say to this person since I have no knowledge of kitty toys, kitty breeds or kitty litter for that matter, and two, she desperately needed an “animal free” night on the town, preferably with a Chippendale's dancer.

Then there are times I just feel too tired to talk but wonder if I let an opportunity slip away by remaining silent. Case in point – a five-hour flight from Los Angeles to Orlando two days earlier. When I boarded, I just wanted to listen to my iPod and watch episodes of my new favorite show, Mad Men, on DVD. And that’s what I did in spite of the fact my seat mate was a large, African-American gentlemen who talked non-stop (but quietly) on his cell phone during the inevitable 90-minute “mechanical issue” that preceded the flight. I overheard a few snippets including “we’ll need to take a meeting with him when I get back” and “it’s time they know that I’m not a one-hit wonder.”

Okay, on one hand this is typical “LA cell phone conversation.” Walk down an LA street or sit in a café and listen to people yak on their cell phones. You will swear that everyone is talking to Martin Scorsese. Once I was walking along Venice Beach and saw a guy stretched out on the grass, cell phone in hand, saying, “and I’ll just have to go to William Morris if ICM or CAA won’t give me the money that this is worth.” I’m not really a betting man but I’d be willing to wager that there was nobody on the other end of the phone.

Maybe that was the case with the man seated to my left. But what if he was a rising star in the entertainment field? Or an established star who I would know by name, if not by sight? Did I miss something by opting not to initiate a conversation? We’ll never know. He closed his eyes shortly after takeoff and didn’t wake up until we were circling Disney World.

The truth is, I’m always on the lookout for interesting stories from strangers. That’s why I’ve become so chatty during my travels. Everybody has a story to tell if you just let him or her get started. And if you want a guaranteed intriguing story, look no further than Las Vegas cabdrivers. I often wish the Strip were farther away from McCarran International Airport as it would give me more time in the cab with these people, who are unlike cab drivers in any other American city. Number one, they speak English. Number two; they don’t talk on the phone while driving. I recently hailed a cab in Chicago and the foreign cabbie spent the entire ride repeating what sounded to me like “chocolate taco” into the phone. Perhaps it’s a greeting in some African country. But it was annoying. Worse, it was making me hungry.

When these drivers FINALLY hang up and I ask who was on the line, they typically tell me it was a family member. “My brother in El Salvador” and “my uncle in Bangladesh” are responses I’ve received recently.

How cab drivers can afford their cell phone bills is a question I will never be able answer.

Vegas cab drivers are different. Like everybody else in Vegas, they came from somewhere else. They weren’t planning to stay long but they’re still here. And ALL of them have some hiccup in their life story that landed them in Vegas driving tourists to hotels, strip clubs and convention centers. Talk to them long enough and that life-altering detour will come out in conversation.

So, how long you been in Vegas?

About 12 years.

What did you do before that?

I lived in San Jose. I was an IT consultant for Sun Microsystems.

What was that like?

It was great man, particularly the international travel.

So did you move your family out here?

No, my wife – my ex-wife - and kids are still there. (PAUSE) Man, that cocaine will mess you up. Stay away from it pal. (PAUSE) Did you say the Bellagio or the Venetian?

There it was right there. No need to press; just sit back, listen and the truth always comes out.Once I had a cabbie who spent the first part of the ride berating gamblers.

“So you don’t gamble?” I asked.

“Nah, it’s for suckers. It does nothing for me. Of course when friends come to visit, I might take ‘em to the Strip for the night. Maybe I’ll throw a few bucks in a machine here and there. But that’s just to kill time.

"But that’s it?”

“Yeah, nothing else. Course I might make a sports bet every now and then, especially during football season. Makes the games more fun, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Baseball can be fun too. I mean, I’m no Pete Rose or nothin’ but I do okay. ‘Specially if I parlay. I did a six-team parlay last season that paid me about three grand. Course it’s Vegas baby. It all goes back eventually. Hey, who do you like in the fifth at Belmont?”

By the time the cab pulled up to the hotel, I was convinced that I was this guy’s last fare before his Gamblers Anonymous meeting.

Every now and then my Vegas cabbie is a retired guy who’s driving a cab because he “missed being around people.” That may be true but I can think of about 1,000 jobs in Vegas that allow you to meet people and DON’T require shuttling drunks between strip clubs at 3:30 a.m. Pushing a change cart through a smoky casino seems more appealing. For that matter, so does putting on a full suit of armor in August and standing outside Caesar’s Palace.

My dad, a retired salesman, is 76 and devotes his sunset years to volunteering as a marshal at a nearby public golf course. He drives a cart around and gently reminds foursomes to “keep up the pace.” It’s easy work and allows him to get his “people fix.” Plus it gets him out of the house twice a week. Were it not for his limited vision and arthritic knees, he’d probably be a great cab driver. Or a great knight at Caesar’s Palace.

The need for stimulating conversation is something that I long for, particularly in this age of earbuds, Blackberries, home theatres and other toys that allow us to retreat into our own private worlds. Maybe that’s why I’m lucky to have chosen stand-up comedy as a career. It’s a guaranteed conversation starter; just tell a stranger that’s your occupation and you’ll get a response. NOBODY has ever said, “hmmmm, interesting” and resumed reading a business document. Insurance salesmen, on the other hand, probably get that response on a daily basis.

So if you’re seated next to me on a plane, or you’re driving me around town in a taxi, or you happen to sit next to me in a hotel bar, be prepared. I’m going to pick your brain and find out what makes you the person you are. But don’t worry, I can take a hint. I’ll leave you alone if your nose is buried in your PDA or your ears in your iPod.

Or if I see you with a cat.

Hello? Anybody out there?

I am sitting in seat 4F on an American Airlines plane bound for Chicago from Boston. The small number means I’m in first class, which means it’s unlikely there will be conversation for the next two hours.

It’s not that I have never spoken to anyone in first class; quite the contrary. On a flight last month I had a very pleasant conversation with an elderly woman on her way to Moscow for an opera function. She was from Miami and in the short time we conversed, I determined that she was a hot shot in opera circles. I know of exactly two opera singers – Beverly Sills and Luciano Pavarotti – and they are both dead. So I didn’t have a lot to contribute to the conversation. However, the woman seemed so pleasant that I just nodded in agreement when she said things like, “and no doubt, you’ve seen La Boehme?”

My frequent flier status with American allows me to fly first-class more often than not. Yes, I get a bigger seat, a little more legroom, free drinks and occasionally a meal that looks as if it were about to be served to a Barbie doll. But I don’t usually get the one thing that I feel makes flights feel faster: conversation.

It’s certainly not going to happen on this flight. My seatmate is a 30-something Asian woman who has been poring over a document since the seatbelt sign went on. I stole a glance at the title: “ACUTE DERMAL IRRITATION.” It was written in bold capital letters suggesting that it was quite serious.

I know more about opera than I know about anything containing the word “dermal.” It has something to do with skin, right? So I ascertained that this woman was reading page after page about skin that would not stop itching. Not exactly what I wanted to discuss as we waited for the in-flight meal somewhere over Kentucky.

To make matters worse, the woman caught me glancing at the document and turned her body slightly outward toward the aisle, so any attempt by me to learn more about acute dermal irritation would become more difficult. Did this woman think I was a spy? Perhaps sent to Boston by some foreign government, charged with learning about how Americans deal with itchy skin?

It’s not the first time I have been subliminally accused of “copying.” Several months ago some guy sitting next to me whipped out his laptop, glanced at me and then put one of those privacy shields over his screen. I’ve seen employees at large companies like Cisco and Motorola use them while sending emails. If it makes them feel better or more important, so be it. But I’ve always thought attaching a privacy screen in front of a stranger implies you don’t trust this person. I had been branded a criminal when my only crime had been getting stuck next to this guy, who seemed to think he was Jason Bourne.

Sitting in first-class always comes with it the opportunity that there will be a celebrity in your midst. It’s happened to me on several occasions. I’ve shared the big comfy seats with the likes of Mike Ditka, Beyonce, Duke basketball coach Mike Kzyshiewski and members of the rock band Styx. Once I was seated in first class while the actor William Devane sat behind me in coach. That was kind of cool in a strange way. But forget trying to talk with a celebrity during a flight. All the ones seated in first class with me spent the entire flight sleeping. Apparently being famous makes you tired.

First class may be more comfortable but, for me, coach class is more fun. Don’t believe me? Look at what’s on the passenger’s laptops. Movies, video games and slide shows of a family trip. A first class passenger, on the other hand, opens his laptop and immediately immerses himself in an Excel spreadsheet containing updated figures of everyone suffering from acute dermal irritation.

Coach class passengers appreciate things while first-class people demand them. True, there is not much to appreciate about air travel, given the state of the airlines today. When I fly coach, I appreciate a seat that doesn’t have a broken air blower directly above it. But first-class passengers stomp on board first, throw their sport jackets at the flight attendant as if she had a coat hook sprouting from her nose and wonder why they can’t get a drink IMMEDIATELY! BEFORE THEY OPEN THEIR LAPTOPS!

It was just seven years ago that Americans waited in line for hours to donate blood for the victims of 9/11. I saw such a line outside City Hall in Chicago, where a blood bank had been set up. Nobody was yakking on cell phones, listening to headphones or appearing disinterested with their surroundings. Instead people talked…to each other.

What happened? When did we lose the art of conversation? I’m certainly not advocating another terrorist attack but is that what it takes to get people talking with each other again?

Okay, my meal is here. Time to put away my laptop and attempt conversation with my seatmate. I’m going to do my best even if it makes my skin itch.

Ladies and gentlemen...START YOUR REALITY CHECKS

I have friends who live and breathe Fantasy sports. Every spring they congregate at somebody’s house for something called the “fantasy baseball draft.” This is followed in late summer by the “fantasy football draft.” And during the “season,” they follow their respective “players” with the gusto of George Steinbrenner.

I’ve never understood the concept of fantasy anything when it comes to sports. I know I’ll get an argument from fantasy groupies around the country but my feeling is clear: why indulge in a fantasy sport when you can spend your time watching, or even participating in, the real thing?

That was until last Memorial Day weekend when witnessed a sports event that is clearly turning into a giant fantasy.

It’s called the Indianapolis 500.

I’ve never been a big fan of racing, be it NASCAR, Indy cars, dragsters or even the Cub Scout-sponsored Pinebox Derby. I know NASCAR fans gravitate to tracks on Saturdays like a baby takes to a breast but I still don’t get the appeal. My comedian friend Dobie Maxwell has the best line about NASCAR: “a bunch of hillbillies turning left for four hours.”

However, my father-in-law LOVES racing and, sometime around last Christmas approached me with the idea of attending this year’s Indy 500. Considering Indianapolis is only three hours from my house, this didn’t seem like a major inconvenience. Get up early, shoot down I-65, watch the race, get back in the car and be home in time to catch the highlights on SportsCenter.

A month later, we secured tickets in that most popular of ticket forums – eBay- and awaited race day with varying degrees of enthusiasm. My father-in-law was like a kid awaiting Christmas morning.

“You bringing a stopwatch?” he said to me about a week before the race?

”What for?” I thought. “So I can time how long it takes me to get a beer once we
get inside?”

Or maybe gauge how long it would take to reach the Port-a-Potty?”

I had already read enough on the Indy 500 to know that, at 300,000 plus spectators, it is the LARGEST single-day sporting event in the world.

No, I wasn’t planning to bring a stopwatch. Just a smile, a positive attitude and the knowledge that I would be spending some quality time with an in-law.

But, as race day grew closer, my excitement grew. I read about Danica Patrick’s quest to become the first female winner in history; I wondered aloud if Helio Castroneuves could win the 500 and Dancing with the Stars in the same year; and I wondered if I would see David Letterman at the race, since he actually OWNS an Indy race team. Heck, maybe I’d even go invest in a stopwatch!

A glorious race day dawned and we made our way to Indianapolis armed with sunscreen, binoculars, earplugs and Egg McMuffins. About five miles out of Indianapolis, we joined a traffic jam, the likes of which I had never seen on ANY interstate. If two semis had flipped over and OJ Simpson was being chased in the remaining open lane, it still would not have created the traffic tie-ups that race day generates. Cars, trucks, SUVs, Winnebagos and AirStreams clogged the exit ramp off I-465, all headed to the same destination. Somewhere amidst the throng, I imagined a car containing an elderly couple who were just trying to get to their son or daughter’s house for a quiet holiday weekend. They’ll probably arrive by the Fourth of July.

Eventually we found the track, used our eBay-purchased parking passes to park in somebody’s backyard and approached the gate. Here was my first indication that the Indy 500 is a fantasy event. Track officials check your ticket, and that’s all. Bring anything you want inside the track. Nobody cares. Guys were wheeling coolers of beer, sandwiches, pies and, for all I know, homemade grenade launchers into the grounds. Nobody peeked inside anything.

I nearly got strip searched one time connecting between Dallas and St. Louis.

We made our way to our seats in the Paddock. Mind you, the Paddock contains some of the best seats at Indy, directly across from Pit Row and bordering the straightaway that also contains the starting and finish line. Even though the track is two and a half miles around, I truly thought I could see everything. I even saw David Letterman, standing on Pit Row in the midst of his team, wearing a white shirt and trying hard to remain inconspicuous.

This was America, this was sports, this was reality.
Then the race started – and fantasy reared its head.

The last time I checked, gas hovered at about $4.25 a gallon. Yet here was driver after driver, cruising down Pit Row and filling the tank without worry. No credit card, no driving to other pits to see if gas was a few pennies cheaper and nobody’s tank got capped at $75.

Furthermore, I don’t know how many miles per gallon the average race car gets but, judging by how often the drivers were pitting for more gas, I have to believe they are on par with Hummers in terms of fuel economy.

Once the car loaded up on free unleaded premium, or whatever it is that makes a racecar go, it was back to the track for a leisurely drive at 200 plus miles per hour. No police lurking in a hidden section of the infield with radar guns, no senior citizens in the left hand lane of Turn Two and no drivers making obscene gestures when another car cut them off. Furthermore, one car even hit a wall and was back in the race 15 minutes later.

I once backed into a mailbox and my Dad took away the keys for a month.

The race continued. Numerous caution flags slowed the drivers down to a paltry 100 miles per hour. Suddenly, the moment that would be replayed endlessly on ESPN occurred: Danica Patrick pulled away from Pit Row and was promptly clipped by Ryan Briscoe – a MALE driver. The crowd groaned. But what was this? Something even the most seasoned Indy spectators had never seen before. A WOMAN driver, stalking toward Briscoe’s car. The entire crowd knew it wasn’t to exchange licenses and insurance information. Track security intervened before she got to Briscoe but I would have paid at least an extra hundred bucks to watch Patrick vs. Briscoe in Ultimate Fighting.

Everyone was so consumed with the confrontation (that never amounted to anything, by the way) that nobody noticed Scott Dixon racing toward the checkered flag, which he won with ease. No sooner had he crossed the line than my brother in law grabbed my arm and said, “let’s go.”

We raced to the car and beat about 200,000 people to the interstate. Home in plenty of time to watch the replay on TV, just as I had imagined.

Yes, it was a great day but I think it’s time to make auto racing a little more realistic. Next year, to show that Indy is an “eco friendly” event, make the drivers cruise the track in Hybrids. Halfway through the race, all must pull over for an emissions test and wait while a state-employed “technician” with the brain power of a gnat hooks numerous hoses to their vehicles and fills out a myriad of paperwork. The winner, instead of chugging milk upon completion of the race, has to drink an entire Venti Starbucks, since that’s what most drivers drink in their cars these days.

Finally, all cars must contain a four-year-old child in the backseat, who screams to watch a DVD during the race.

Now we’re talking reality.

I feel like a m-o-r-o-n

So I missed one of my favorite sporting events on television this past weekend. I can’t believe Tivo did not notify me that it was time once again for the Scripps National Spelling Bee.
I can’t explain it but I am fascinated by this event. Maybe it’s because ESPN considers it a “sport.” Maybe it’s because I was the spelling champ at Windsor Elementary School in the second grade.
Maybe it’s because Americans suck at spelling and it’s nice to see a bunch of kids spelling complex words without the aid of a Microsoft spell checker.
I first became hooked on the Scripps spelling bee several years ago while channel surfing and stopping on one of the 87 ESPN channels. I’ve decided that ESPN has more channels than actual sports, which probably explains why I can see such raw athletic pursuits as keg tossing, women’s bodybuilding and horseshoe pitching all from the privacy of my couch.
On this particular evening, none of those events interested me so I kept clicking until I came upon a bunch of junior-high aged children, most with glasses, some with peach fuzz under their noses and all with pained expressions on their faces as they struggled to spell words that were never on any SAT test that I took. I never used any of them while writing for The Palm Beach Post newspaper. As far as I could tell, none of these words even existed. And yet these kids plowed through them as if they were taken from a first-grade reading book.
I was transfixed. I marveled at the competitive nature and the pressure. Yes, the Scripps spelling bee is pressure packed, as evidenced by one contestant who fainted onstage one year yet recovered, returned immediately to the stage and still spelled his word correctly.
Of course my favorite part of the Bee is the fact that it has announcers. Since this event is broadcast on ESPN, the network has to hire commentators to describe every scintillating SPELL-binding moment. I’m not sure if the guys they hire were new to the network and working their way up, or if they had committed some grievous violation and were demoted. Whatever the reason, they are always determined to make the Scripps spelling bee every bit as tingling as a sudden death playoff at the Masters.
Well, it's a beautiful day in Washington D.C. Chip.
That’s right Jack, The air is thick with the smell of nouns, verbs and dangling participles.
We've got a top-notch bunch of kids who are going to stand on a stage with numbers around their necks and do nothing for most of the time. And we'll cover every step of the action.
You know Jack, a lot's been said that American kids are too lazy to spell.
I disagree Chip. I think Americans are excellent spellers, myself included.
Okay Jack, spell finite.
That's easy...F-I-N-E-K-N-I-G-H-T.
Let's go to a commercial Jack.
According to my favorite information source, Wikipedia, the Scripps National Spelling Bee began in 1925, and was won by Frank Neuhauser, who spelled gladiolus, which is either the center part of the sternum or a flowering plant having sword-shaped leaves. Upon reading that I hope I never have to visit a hospital with gladiolus problems, as I don’t want the doctor pulling plants from my backyard and saying, “they look okay to me!”
Through the years, some of the winning contestants seemed to get off easy. In 1934 Sarah Wilson won by spelling deteriorating. The following year Clara Moller correctly spelled intelligible to achieve Spelling Bee glory. Other winning words included therapy, initials, vignette and condominium. Melody Sachko spelled condominium in 1956, perhaps becoming the only spelling bee champ to spell something that many people own at least once in their lives.
The guy who got off the easiest had to be 1984 champion Daniel Greenblatt who won by spelling (are you ready?) luge! The winning word had four letters? That’s like Tom Brady winning the Super Bowl by walking 100 yards through the defense.
Obviously the organizers of the spelling bee had egg on their faces following Mr. Greenblatt’s victory for the winning words got infinitely harder afterwards. In 1985, Balu Natarajan won for spelling milieu. It should also be noted that Balu Natarajan correctly spelled his own name, which I’m sure earned him extra points. In fact, having a nearly unintelligible name seems to be a prerequisite to winning the bee, as Pratyush Buddiga (2002), Sai R. Gunturi (2003), and Anurag Kashyap (2005) can attest.
In keeping with that theme, 12-year-old Sameer Mishra from Lafayette, Indiana won this year’s contest. The young Mishra lad’s fallen competitors included Sidharth Chand, Samia Nawaz and Kavya Shivashankar. According to the national spelling bee website, Mishra plays the violin, enjoys computer games, likes math and science and aspires to be a neurologist.
When I was 12 I aspired to spell “aspire.”
Mishra blitzed the competition by spelling such commonly used words as sinicize, hyphaeresis, taleggio, nacarat, and numnah. Let me point out that the Microsoft spell checker has ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA what any of those words mean as evidenced by the squiggly red line that appeared under each word when I typed it into a Word document. I had to go to Encarta (the smarter Microsoft application) to learn that “sinicize” means “to acquire a Chinese idiom, form or cultural trait.” Hyphaeresis is “the omission of a sound, letter, or syllable from a word.” If you want a semi-soft cheese made from whole cow’s milk, ask for some “taleggio.” If you wake up and your skin is a pale red color with a cast of orange, it may appear “nacarat.” Finally, the next time you ride a horse, make sure it has a “numnah,” which is a thick felt pad that prevents the saddle from moving.
Which leads to my beef with the National Spelling Bee. Why spell words that you’re never going to use in regular conversation? Want to crown a spelling bee champ? Make him or her wake up the day following the victory, walk down the streets of Washington DC where the contest is held, engage passing strangers in conversation and use every one of the words spelled in the competition.
Hello my name is Sameer. Can you please direct me to Chinatown? I’d like to sinicize before I leave town.
I don’t know what would be weirder: the look the kid would get or the fact that ESPN would broadcast the whole thing live.

Still the happiest place on earth

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

I can't do anything right

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

Confessions of a married man

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until last weekend.

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

It involved beer.

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

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

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

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

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

“I dunno.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Best of 2007...if you ask me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy New Year!

Be careful what you keep

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

Schmoopsy for President

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

Dear Santa

Dear Santa:

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

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

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

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

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

Non-fat cheese popcorn

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

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

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

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

A golf ball with a GPS device.

Ten fewer pounds

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

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

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

Merry Christmas.

Get Bangalore on speed dial

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

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

Hours: Change daily. On call 24x7

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

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

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

Must be able to consume fast food while driving

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

Pay: None

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

Never mix baseball and technology

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

We're All In This Together

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

Santa, what happened?

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

My two cents on Michael Richards

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