Bieter Blog
Empty nesters
Then it happened again. And again. It happened almost every time we opened the door. The bird seemed to come straight from the front door, as if we had let it out of the house.
I investigated. Slid a chair to the front door window and looked from high up at the wreath hanging below. There was a perfectly round bird nest planted on top of it. The nest looked fake, like a part of the wreath. (I should clarify this was a spring wreath — not a Christmas wreath. I took all the Christmas decorations long ago, back in March.)
But I saw loose feathers stuck in the nest's twigs, waving in the wind. Torn bits of leaves. It was a real nest. And not only that. There were four eggs resting on the bottom. They also looked fake, like those little chocolate eggs you get at Easter, but I knew they were real since a fifth egg had popped out of the nest, pressed against the window and broken, leaving a yellow streak of yolk on the glass. Not all eggs have chicks. But what if the other four did?
I came home one night. The lights were on everywhere. The front door was wide open. The mama bird had flown inside our house and all hell had broken loose. I tried to encourage her out with a broom. Chased the shadows she cast on the walls. I did that for about 20 minutes until I figured out she was attracted to the light inside, afraid to fly to the dark in the doors outside, and would probably never leave even though she must have been scared to death.
It's a strange feeling to have a bird loose in your house.
She got tired and was breathing heavy on the kitchen counter, so I put a towel over her, carried her to the door, and released her.
I taped a sign by the inside of the door as a reminder: "Knock before leaving." That way she would have warning to fly to her escape branch and not be tempted to come in the house anymore.
One morning I stood on a chair by the dining room window and looked outside and there was a ball of fluff in the nest, nothing more than a little dust bunny. But it rose with each breath, and there were only three eggs left. Bits of the shell still around. Later that day, when we looked again, there was another ball of fluff. A sister, or maybe a brother!
We checked every morning. They became something more than feathers and grew darker. At dawn I looked at them and their eyes were closed but their mouths were wide open to the sky, reaching and twisting for food from their parents, who had flown to the branch again when they heard me move the curtains.
We tried not to look too much but couldn't help it. Every time we looked they got bigger. At some point, their eyes opened and looked back at us. They got fatter and filled up most of the nest.
Their mom was still there. She flew away every time we opened the door to the branch. She always flew back.
Wednesday both baby birds were perched on the edge of the nest. They looked around, flapped their wings a little, rose up, and then came down. Figuring out how to fly. By yesterday they had started to zip around and were flying to the same branch where their parents had escaped all those times.
This morning I looked out. Nothing in the nest but the same feathers and what birds usually leave behind. Hollow.
It was a little cloudy and I hoped they'd come back if it rained, but I think they probably won't. I was glad we had them for a little while.
Publicly funded arenas: welfare for billionaires?
As a lifelong Minnesota Vikings fan, I've suffered nothing but misery, and now it appears that misery may continue for the rest of my days.
The Vikings are set to build a new stadium that will cost almost $1 billion, half which will be paid by the state and the city of Minneapolis. Without the new stadium, the team likely would have moved, and I think it might have been a struggle to root for the Los Angeles Vikings. The only reason I was damned to be a Vikings fan for eternity is because we visited their summer camp in Mankato when I was five. Had the team moved, I might have been released from the prison of my nostalgia, free to do more productive things on Sundays in the fall.
But now they're staying. I should be thrilled, and I suppose I am. But I also feel a little hypocritical. I've always thought public funding for professional stadiums and arenas was an outrage, a fat subsidy for billionaire owners, millionaire players, and fans like me. Somehow it seemed wrong to have people like George W. Bush, who helped push for public funding of the Texas Rangers' stadium back when he was an owner, feeding from the state trough.
Proponents make the case that these massive, expensive stadiums serve a public good. Building them means employment for a lot of architects and construction workers, at least temporarily — not a bad point with the state of the building industry. A sports franchise boosts a city's prestige, especially when it plays in a cool arena. And then there are all the jobs that go along with the games, the vendors, ushers, ticket takers, guys that dress like a chicken or an octopus. Sometimes a new stadium can revive an entire neighborhood, like Camden Yards in Baltimore or the Verizon Center here in D.C.
Also, part of what makes these deals politically palatable is that the revenue almost always comes from gambling and hospitality taxes. It's easier to sell the public on paying for a stadium when it doesn't affect anybody but gamblers and tourists.
These arguments seem to work every time. Of the last twenty NFL stadiums built, only four are privately financed, and the average public share of the rest is 73% of the total cost. Atlanta appears on the verge of approving a new stadium for the Falcons, on terms similar to the Minnesota deal, and the teams Oakland, San Diego, and St. Louis are looking for public money for their new homes, with the threat of a move to LA in the background.
That's a fairly serious threat, because football remains so popular and lucrative. Nobody wants to be the one who let their team go, because if there's anything that people hate more than spending taxpayer money is not having a home team.
So the pattern might be here to stay, And maybe we get what we deserve. The problem ultimately might not be greedy owners but NFL addicts like me, who will continue to watch whether it's the Minnesota Vikings or the Los Angeles Vikings or the Mexico City Vikings.
(Drawing from Vikings.com)
Meet Chad, failed Lonely Planet travel writer
England was pretty nice. I had a pretty nice hotel. I cannot remember the name or address but it was right across from the KFC if you want to find it. That KFC has pretty good American food. Communicating was not to bad almost everywhere in England except for in Ireland where there English is really bad. Everyone was pretty nice in England. I would have to say that I liked England, it was pretty nice.
France sucks.
Danes cannot be trusted. They are sneaky and from the minute you arrive they will try to steel your wallet. There is nothing to do there and the Danes just walk around smiling at each other with their shady little smiles.
Italy was pretty nice. The Romans used to live there and built some buildings. That was probably 300 years ago. I walked around quite a bit and looked at the buildings. What can I say? They were old, so there you go. I saw the leaning tower of Pizza, that was really nice. I had a guy take a picture of me in front of it pretending to be pushing it up. They guy laughed and said I was the first person who had ever done that. When he left, I was missing my wallet. The food was okay but you know what? The Italian food was really disappointing. There was a good Chinese place around the corner from my hostile. Women in the U.S.A. like to complain about how sleezy American guys are but they should see the Italian guys, who would try to pick up on a raw piece of meet if it had a wig. So if your a girl do not go to Italy, would be my advice.
My keys to packing for a worldwide trip: Get a small back pack. Fill it with underwear and another pair of pants besides the pair you are wearing. You do not need extra shirts because you can buy cheap Tin Tin t-shirts everywhere you go and then you just give them to the kids or the border police when you leave because pretty much everywhere else in the world is really poor and they have beggars and jipsies who are looking to pick you're pockets. And they don't take showers anywhere else in the world so if you reek a little bit it really is not a problem because it will just make you fit in more. Damn we are lucky to be American. That's what you realize whenever you go anywhere. I told the foreigners I met everywhere the same thing, about how I was sorry for them that they are not American. So you really don't even need to take anything more than that because people love Americans wherever you go, and if you just tell them you're American then they love you and will give you everything you need. So don't take to much.
Keys to communicating: If you talk American, you're all set most places. Find yourself in a place where not much American is spoken? I would high-tail it on out of there. It's a big world so why waist your time trying to talk to people who make no effort to learn your language?
India was really nice.
There was one country I was in and had a really good time but I honestly cannot remember which one it was which is to bad because it was a lot of fun.
I didn't really like China that much, to be honest. I would have given anything just to be home. If you think about it, why travel? You have everything you need right there at home and you don't have to carry around a bunch of stuff. Why did I leave home? was a question I asked myself a lot. Traveling really sucks.
I would not recommend North Korea. I accidentally crossed over the border when I was in South Korea and was apprehended and held in maximum security prison for several months since they thought I was a spy. The food was not very nice. But if you do cross over accidentally into North Korea and get arrested, one up side is you get to meet President Clinton and President Carter and both President Bushes when they come to negotiate your release.
Keys to gettting along with foreigners: I took a bunch of tooth brushes with me and handed them out to people because almost everybody has really awful teeth everywhere else but in the U.S.A. They appreciated that, is what I think, because they just stared at those tooth brushes in silence.
Australia is just like the U.S.A. except they do not speak English as good as us and they use different dollars. I got frustrated with the different dollars and figuring out how much everything is in real dollars. That's not just Australia. Everywhere makes it really hard to figure out what things really cost. And at least in Austrialia they use dollars and not some made up currency. If I was like the dictator of the world I would say Okay everybody just stop what you are doing, we're all going to use American dollars from now on. And I think people would really appreciate that.
Africa was really nice. The people there were really nice.
South America stinks. Unless you like having to go to the bathroom every ten minutes.
It is what it is
It is always reassuring to know that it is what it is, but there was the one time it was not what it is. A strange experience.
The day started out as any other, and as it had been for as long as anyone could remember, it was what it is. We were sitting around it at brunch. We shared mimosas and funny stories. Laughed. And then when everyone looked at it again, we discovered it was no longer what it is.
As sometimes happens when something changes, everyone instantly became nostalgic and remembered what it was like when it was what it is. When everyone was happy and we were young. It was what it is, and that was just fine with us. Maybe it wasn't what it was, but we felt secure thinking that from that point on it would always be what it is.
We were wrong.
Somebody thought it might have been what it would be, but that was cold comfort. We wanted it to be what it is. Maybe, somebody else said, it was never meant to be what it is but had just temporarily been what it is and now was becoming something that it never was, or was in the process of becoming something that it was going to be. Everyone was too polite to say, but certainly felt inside, that these were the preposterous notions of a drunkard.
The usual cynics and gadflies asked why it always had to be what it is. Why, one asked with a sneer, can't you old bastards just accept the fact that it never will be what it is again and that in fact it never was what it was and never was what it is and just let it be whatever it will be. Of course, he had to be superior and punctuate his point with some snooty foreign words: Que sera, sera. None of us speaks French (who does anymore besides the French?), but we assumed it was an insult.
After that stinkbomb exploded, there were unpleasant words exchanged.
As usual, the adults in the room took over and reminded us that maybe we've been listening to too much ESPN radio and while it is fine for Mike and Mike in the Morning or Tony Kornheiser to point out that it is what it is many times during a broadcast, that's not always the way it has to be.
Holding an ancient finger in the air, one noted that sometimes in the real world you have to recognize that it is something that it was or was not or maybe never could have been or might never have been. And don't forget the plurals: Are they always what they are? Are they what they were or are they something they are not? If things always were what they are then they would never have been what they were and would never become what they were to be.
It was simplistic but hard to argue with, and everyone nodded their heads. But by that time it had turned back into what it is. We were all a bit relieved and finished a few bottles of champagne. We agreed that in some ways it was too bad it is what it is because it is really kind of crappy.
Is naked art overrated?
What do you do when confronted with artwork featuring nudes? There's no way to win. If you don't like it, you're a prude. A philistine. If you like it? You're a little twisted, a dirty old man or woman.
A stock reason for why we're supposed to like it is that the human body is a beautiful thing, as pure and natural as a flower, and if the work depicting it is rendered correctly it reveals the secrets and emotions within these vessels we've been given.
But isn't that a bit of malarkey? A painting or sculpture shouldn't be considered beautiful just because there's a nude on it, although they usually are. And really — just being honest — more often than not these kinds of works are a little yucky. Or so dominated by the body that the beauty of the rest of the piece is sucked away, like the Rembrandt above.
And then what if it's not yucky but really pretty good? Then you have another question: How different is it from pornography? Or is there a difference at all? It's all objectification of the body, isn't it? Is it art when it's in a museum and pornography when it's in a skin mag?
We went to the National Gallery of Art on Sunday. Nakeds all over the place. On the wall, reclining on their sofas on a lazy afternoon in the 1700s. Bronzed and standing without shame in the middle of the room. Breasts and phalluses framed and shining in the spotlights.
My eight-year-old daughter looked at everything. I asked her what she thought. She said, Well, they're okay. But they're inappropriate.
This comment initiated a number of silent emotions within me and then presented a problem, a classic dilemma of parenthood: Trying not to infect your child with your own shortcomings, and yet not leaving them adrift at sea without some kind of compass. Just because I have bad taste in art doesn't mean she has to. But is my taste that bad?
How convenient it would have been just to say: Yes, it's inappropriate and dirty. You shouldn't look at naked people. Now, let's go get a snowcone. But I always like to do things the hard way.
Art is different, I explained, and the human body is a beautiful thing, as pure and natural as a flower and if rendered correctly blah blah blah.
Even as I spoke I didn't believe myself. Really, I felt the same about it as I do when I look at a modern sculpture of 74 garbage cans affixed to a wall with a nail gun. It's supposed to be good. After all, here it is in this world-class museum. But to me, it just looks like a bunch of garbage cans tacked to the wall.
(Above, Rembrandt's Susannah with the Elders)
What have we learned from the Great Recession?
Santa put an orange in our Christmas stocking every year. As a kid, I never really understood why.
Years later, my mother told me that oranges were a rare treat when she was a girl, especially during the Depression. If she was very good and very lucky, she might get one at Christmas.
Dad could match her Depression story for Depression story, and your family probably has some of its own. Nineteen people sharing one house, seeing their breath around the pot-bellied stove. Women holding babies in the breadlines.
The Depression never went away for many. Decades later, they clipped coupons even when they were flush with cash and didn't really need that extra 35 cents. They turned off the lights when they left the room. Didn't use heat until November 15, no matter how cold it was. Closed the refrigerator door. Avoided borrowing. Always paid cash. All the things your grandma told you to do that might have prevented the current mess.
I've been wondering if we'll have similar habits years from now after the economy picks up again (and it will pick up again — right?). It's probably a futile effort, especially since we're still living through the low part of the cycle, but I have a bad habit of trying to predict things like what the shag rug of the future will be.
I don't think we'll change that much in the long term. Maybe it's because this recession, though nasty, isn't as severe as the Depression, when unemployment hit almost 25 percent. And maybe my perception is skewed by living in a place, Washington, D.C., that hasn't been hit as hard as most.
But I bet that if we could see ten years into the future, spending and saving habits will have returned to where they were before 2007. People might be cautious for a while, especially those who lost jobs or retirement savings. They won't go out and get 103 percent home loans. At least for a while. Eventually, amnesia will set in. People will be tired of doing without. There will be all sorts of new gadgets that render things like the iPad obsolete. The dollar will be strong again, making international travel more appealing and "staycation" an abandoned word.
The exception might be recent college graduates, half of whom don't have full-time jobs now. That kind of experience at a young age is bound to change a person. But how much and for how long? Ten years from now, they'll have weathered the storm and, while they may be slightly more sophisticated consumers than their parents and grandparents, they'll be just as likely to want the same things and make the same mistakes. They won't be arguing with the cashier over coupons.
If you don't believe me, look at JPMorgan Chase $2 billion "sloppy mistake." It's back to the future.
What goes up must come down, but it usually goes back up. Then it goes down again. But by that time I'll probably be getting a fat Social Security check every month, so I'm not worried at all.
Happy Mothers Day
Mom used to wake me up to do the route, and sometimes when it was very cold or rainy she would go with me in the car. She would fold the newspapers, put rubber bands around them, help me look for the next address on our delivery list. When we got home she made cocoa and we would sit in silence in those moments before every one else was up.
I woke up one February morning when I was supposed to deliver papers. It was freezing. The day before it had snowed a few inches. Then I noticed sunlight through the window. I looked at the clock. 6:45! I jumped up and ran downstairs.
Mom was at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. I was a little annoyed. What happened? Why didn't you get me up?
She told me to go back to bed. I wouldn't get up when she called, so she had finished the route for me.
Here's to our moms.
Anti-bullying campaigns: Good for the bullies too (continued)
The Washington Post has a massive story today about Mitt Romney's time at a prestigious Michigan prep school in the 1960s.
Front and center is an incident that happened during his senior year, when he and several others ganged up on another student who was "perpetually teased for his nonconformity and presumed homosexuality." The student, John Lauber, had bleached-blond hair that draped over his eyes. And apparently, that really bothered Romney:
“He can’t look like that. That’s wrong. Just look at him!” an incensed Romney told Matthew Friedemann, his close friend in the Stevens Hall dorm, according to Friedemann’s recollection. Mitt, the teenaged son of Michigan Gov. George Romney, kept complaining about Lauber’s look, Friedemann recalled.
A few days later, Friedemann entered Stevens Hall off the school’s collegiate quad to find Romney marching out of his own room ahead of a prep school posse shouting about their plan to cut Lauber’s hair. Friedemann followed them to a nearby room where they came upon Lauber, tackled him and pinned him to the ground. As Lauber, his eyes filling with tears, screamed for help, Romney repeatedly clipped his hair with a pair of scissors.
A couple things struck me about the article. First, as I mentioned in this post a while back, the remorse people have over hazing or bullying sometimes never goes away — which is another good reason for anti-bullying campaigns. Several men involved in the incident, now in their mid-60s, said they were still troubled by it and regretted not stopping it.
One of them ran into Lauber in the mid-1990s:
“Hey, you’re John Lauber,” [David] Seed recalled saying at the start of a brief conversation. Seed, also among those who witnessed the Romney-led incident, had gone on to a career as a teacher and principal. Now he had something to get off his chest.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t do more to help in the situation,” he said.
Lauber paused, then responded, “It was horrible.” He went on to explain how frightened he was during the incident, and acknowledged to Seed, “It’s something I have thought about a lot since then.” Lauber died in 2004, according to his three sisters.
Romney said he didn't remember the incident, but apologized for it after the story came out this morning.
The second thing that hit me about the article: What's the big deal?
Maybe we are supposed to find deep insights about Romney's character from things he did in high school, from pranks he pulled on teachers or from the perfumed letters girls sent him. Maybe it's supposed to mean something that he didn't even recall the Lauber incident, much less feel guilty about it. Besides the bullying story, all I really learned about Romney is that he was a rich kid who had a hokey sense of humor. Now he is a rich man who has a hokey sense of humor.
We are the sum of our experiences and choices. But shouldn't there be a point where an event is so distant that it doesn't have any relation to who a person is today, even when that person is running for president?
The problem is that we have six months until the election, and all that time has to be filled. Much of it will be filled with amateur psychological cheesy poofs.
What SkyMall has meant to me
Precisely as SkyMall had promised, the unit strapped comfortably to my head and provided a soothing, consistent pressure that gently compressed my blood vessels. I didn't even have a headache. I just enjoyed the alternating heat and cold treatments, the tough-love pressure, and my confident, fashion-forward appearance.
The brain massage stimulated introspection. I thought of my past. Inconvenienced at every turn. Uncomfortable in my chair and in my bed. Poor circulation. Pained feet and back and neck. Itchy from head to toe without the Traveler's Bed Bug Thwarting Sleeping Cocoon. No attractive Bigfoot Garden Yeti statute in my yard. No Original Redneck Wineglass to drink from.
After my head massage, I decided the rest of my body needed relaxation too, so I zipped myself into my Portable Infrared Sauna:
Most people would probably think that's the absolute limit to how relaxed I could get. Most people would be wrong. Practically purring, I applied the Heat and Cold Therapy Massager, the Deluxe Digital Air Massage Boots, and the Neck and Shoulder Heat Wrap — all at the exact same time! I put everything away in my King Tut Life-Sized Egyptian Sarcophagus Cabinet.
At this point, I was so relaxed and exfoliated that you could have stirred me with a spoon. I showered and shaved using my Z'Fogless Water Mirror, removed some arm hair with my Remington, killed some dust mites on my sheets with my Nano-UV Wand, and put on my favorite new t-shirt:
I don't even own a grandkid. I just like to make people smile. And smile they do, every time they pass me when I wear that shirt.
See, that's the difference between me and most people. They're still brainwashed into buying only what they need or what they want. The beauty of SkyMall is it frees you from having to wait until you need it or want it. You just get it. And that fills you with a kind of happiness only money can buy.
I understand your skepticism. You'll come around. At first, some cave men didn't like fire.
Bed-bug free, relaxed, rested, and rubbed within an inch of my life, I went out to the yard to relax some more. I walked over my personalized Center for Exceptional Grandchildren Doormat and admired my Zombie of Montclair Moors statue:
The SkyMall writers describe it best: "Not for the faint of heart, this Toscano-exclusive, life-size, gray-toned zombie will claw his way out of your garden plot, office, or family room corner, pleading for assistance with the eeriest eyes you've ever seen. ... You'll swear you can hear him groaning!" It's a gas.
I inserted my Shake 'n Take Smoothie Maker bottle inside my Tex the Armadillo Beverage Holder, put them both atop my Koozy Kaddy Elevated Drink Holder, plopped down on my Lord Raffles Lion Throne Chair and kicked my feet up on my Kanaloa Tiki God Table, next to my Piano Cheese Board.
Peace was everywhere. There were no neighborhood sounds, thanks to the Indoor Barking Dog Deterrent sending its harmless ultrasonic tone, inaudible to humans, startling all the neighborhood pooches into silence. There was only the tinkling sound from the water below my Peeing Boy of Brussels Statute and Fountain.
I looked at that urinating statue and, as always, began to reflect deeply. Was I worthy of all this largesse? Maybe not. Some holier-than-thou types might say I've got too many things. Fine. But we are living in a material world, and I am a material girl.
Good time waster: Obama and Romney with old-time presidential beards and sideburns
One problem with a midnight red-eye from San Diego to Newark, especially one in which you did not sleep at all because you were in the middle seat fudged between two heavy duties with pointy elbows and comfortable neck pillows, is the post-flight giddiness that makes almost anything funny — including a bunch of pictures of the beards and chops the likely nominees would wear if they were running for president in the 1800s.
By contrast, if you are not coming off such a flight — and it's very likely you aren't — these pictures will have no effect on you at all, other than to give you a taste of what the day after such a red-eye feels like. So consider yourself fortunate and remember to have some pity for those of us who are suffering.
The life stages of Saturday Night Live
Then you got a little older. Staying up until SNL was an achievement. It lurked there beyond Love Boat and Fantasy Island or whatever you watch on Saturday night when you're a kid, and even past the danger zone of the local news. If your parents were having a dinner party or had a lazy babysitter, they might forget about you and you could pull it off. "Live from New York!" It carried the delicious taste of the forbidden fruit.
Then you were in 8th grade. It was Saturday night and there was nothing to do. You stayed at your best friend's house and shot baskets in the dark. You could see your breath under the street light. Your parents didn't care how late you stayed up as long as you were in the house. You could watch almost all of it if you wanted, but you didn't get the jokes and usually you'd fall asleep before the end.
Then you were in high school. It was Saturday night and there was a lot to do. You had football and basketball games and dances and hanging out at the mart at midnight and everything else you do then. Sometimes you'd have a downer weekend and you'd watch some of it. When you did, you'd say: Who are these people?
You were in college. Unless you had broken up with your boyfriend or girlfriend or were in a losing streak, you never watched SNL. You might catch the last little bit, which you usually couldn't remember and probably wasn't worth remembering anyway. If you did watch it, you'd get nostalgic with your friends. Remember when we couldn't make it to the beginning of SNL?
You were in your twenties. You never watched it. If you were home at all when it started, you were with your friends getting ready to go out. Then you'd stay out until dawn, go out to breakfast with the sunrise through the blinds casting stripes across your friends' faces. On Monday, you'd hear other people talk about what was on SNL. To you, those were the invisible people.
Then you met somebody. For a while, you'd go out with friends together and close the bars. But at some point it just became the two of you. You wanted your own time alone. You went out to dinner and had some drinks. You might click on the TV later, but there were other things to do.
Then you were together. Maybe married. Maybe some kids. It was Saturday night and there was nothing to do. You watched the whole show, or at least until the second music bit. You probably didn't make it until the end. You could watch almost all of it if you wanted, but you didn't get the jokes and usually you'd fall asleep before the end.
You were older. If you went out at all, you needed a babysitter. Saturday night wasn't what it used to be. When you got in you thought: Can I stay up all the way? Then you knew you weren't going to make it. Gradually, your expectations changed. You might make it to the beginning, maybe even to the first music bit. When you did, you said: Who are these people?
Now you're even older. You can't stay up late enough to watch Saturday Night Live.
A conversation with former Senator Larry Craig
Lost amid the well-covered events in Minneapolis almost five years ago is the fact that few politicians have been as successful as Larry Craig. He won all 11 of his elections, including the three that sent him to the Idaho Legislature in the 1970s. He represented Idaho in the U.S. Congress for 28 years — first in the House of Representatives, then for three terms in the Senate. Only the legendary Senator William Borah represented Idaho longer.
After retiring from the Senate in January 2009, he started a small lobbying firm, New West Strategies. He splits time between Washington, D.C. and Boise, where he and his wife of almost 30 years, Suzanne, own a home and where all three of their children and ten grandchildren are nearby.
I visited him at his office in the Watergate Building to ask about his post-Senate life.
Any regrets about your decision to retire from Congress?
No. I used to smoke, and for me leaving the Senate was like quitting smoking. Whenever I get a craving, I run over to the couch and tell myself that this too will pass. It wasn’t necessarily an easy decision, but my wife and I had decided together long ago that 2008 was the year I was going to retire, and anyone who knows us knows that was our plan.
Do you think you would have won again in 2008?
I think I would have won.
When you left the Senate, did you consider retiring altogether? Maybe moving someplace like Florida and just fishing and golfing?
No. I inherited my work ethic from my dad, who worked his whole life. It’s important to stay busy doing the things you think are productive. It’s healthy.
Was it difficult to adjust to the private sector?
In some ways, it was difficult. I was used to having a staff. Now I’m the guy who does the research. The whole time I was in Congress, I never had a computer on my desk. I did have a BlackBerry, but eventually when I got a computer I had to ask my wife how to email people. But I’ve become much more proficient and found it’s increasingly easy to use all the new technology we have.
How’s business? Has it been hard to find clients?
I had a lot of options when I left Congress. I had some handsome offers from larger firms, but I felt it would be a better fit for me to have a smaller practice. That’s not necessarily the easiest route to take. When you have significant experience in Congress, it’s assumed you’ll have clients come to you automatically. But that’s not the case. You have to hustle, and you always hustle. The funny thing is that those you expected to hire you, don’t hire you. You have to get out and work for it. I still have to cold call, and do maybe 15-20 of them a year. But I have a number of very good clients. I work largely on issues related to energy and the EPA and veterans’ groups.
Do you miss the Senate?
I miss the associations and friendships in the Senate, although when I’m [in Washington, D.C.] I still get to see many of my old friends and colleagues.
Did you feel betrayed by some of those colleagues in 2007?
I certainly found out quickly who my true friends were.
Is it hard not to be in the spotlight, or do you enjoy the privacy?
I don’t miss being in the spotlight. I can’t say I didn’t enjoy that part of being in Congress when I was there. But I was never one who thought the world couldn’t operate without me. It’s very gratifying to read the newspaper and not see my name in it. At the same time, I still run into people back home that recognize me. Idahoans are still very kind to me. They like to say hello and talk about how it was and how it ought to be.
You must have more time to spend with your family now.
Yes, but even when I was in Congress, Suzanne and I worked very hard to schedule time for our kids and grandkids. I rarely missed a soccer game. But I’m in Idaho more now and get to spend a lot of time with my grandchildren. And it’s so beautiful there in Boise. We can see the valley and the mountains from our home. I love to look at that view.
One night, my grandson and I were out looking at the sky before a thunderstorm. We could see lightning, and he said, “Granddad, I think that lightning’s going to start some fires.” And sure enough, we could see the lightning hit in the distance and there was a fire. It was something to see.
Ask yourself a question.
Question: Who would you like to be stranded with on an Idaho mountain top? Answer: My wonderful wife Suzanne along with her cell phone and a GPS.
All we need is Maine, continued
Through perseverance, we finally had all except Maine. We were almost there. The last .2 of the marathon.
Obsessed, I paid cash for everything. Bought things I didn't need and looked through the change immediately, as if I didn't trust the cashiers. Cheap bastard, they probably thought. But I didn't care. I was focused on Maine and only Maine. Instead, I got Connecticut, Rhode Island, Hawaii, Wyoming, the common states. Canadian money to me.
I began to realize this wasn't the last .2 of the marathon. When all you need is one quarter and it's Maine and you are doing it natural, you feel as if you still have 14 miles to go and here comes that hill and the rain and hail and all you want to do is stop running. Could we really do it?
Saturday afternoon I was by myself at home. There was nothing left to buy, so I mowed the lawn. I was almost done when some neighbors passed by with their beautiful golden retrievers. Since I was missing my own golden that died recently, I was glad to go over and pet theirs. We chatted for a while and I invited them over for a mid-afternoon bottle of wine.
They are a couple that has done everything and been everywhere. Sailed around the world for years. Met Bill Clinton. Worked in Alaska. When you have a chance to talk to people like that you don't let it go, and the lawn be damned. Before we knew it the afternoon was gone and so was the wine, and just in time because there was a vicious storm approaching and the trees were in a bluster.
One of them left their sunglasses and last night on our way out to dinner we dropped them off. It was pouring rain and on her way back to the car my wife sprinted back carrying a small envelope with our names written in ink that streaked a little from the rain. She read their thank you message as I drove. Then, out of the corner of my eye I saw there was a coin taped below their signature.
She didn't have to tell me what it was. Maine. Admitted as the 23rd state in 1820, part of the Missouri Compromise. Its quarters were minted in 2003, with an image of the Pemaquid Point Light guiding a schooner through the shoal. Round, with ridges on the edge and George Washington on the other side like every other quarter. But this was the most beautiful quarter in the history of the world. It showed the nicks and smudges of the nine years and thousands of miles it had traveled to get to us.
For a moment, I wondered whether it counted as natural. It hadn't been handed over by the dry cleaner or some other stranger. But I hadn't asked for it. It had come by the unsolicited kindness of our neighbors after a well-spent afternoon. I think that's natural, maybe the perfect way to get the 50th.
I have read about world-class mountain climbers who experience sadness after finishing Everest. Looking at that Maine quarter, I felt a bit of that. There's nothing left to do. But the feeling didn't last too long. We'll find something else.
Thank you for visiting the DMV
Welcome! We are very glad to see you! Here at the DMV, we relish our time with you, and we want to make every moment you spend here a special one for all involved!
Please make yourself comfortable in one of our ergonomically appropriate chairs. Enjoy the hot towels and the supplication of our staff. The server will be by shortly to take your drink order and to show you our freshly baked pastries. We also have a vegan selection.
In advance of your visit, we took the liberty of canceling your outstanding tickets for parking and moving violations. We would like to apologize for any inconvenience those have caused you. If you wish, visit our Shredding Room on the second floor, where you can destroy the canceled tickets yourself and enjoy tossing their shredded bits in the air as if giving yourself a private ticker tape parade. You deserve it! At the DMV, everybody is a World Series champion!
It should be a short wait, but in the meantime please browse our library of newspapers and hardbacks, both fiction or nonfiction (and we'll look the other way if you pilfer one or two). Visit our massage room, our comedy club, our Turkish bath, our firing range, or our serenity room. If none of these appeal to you, our concierge, Hans, is here to help you find a way to spend those empty minutes — that is, if you have to wait at all.
Also, consider stopping by our Formerly Rude Attendant Room, where you can visit with one of our staff who may not have lived up to our expected level of quality. We have duct taped their mouths for you. Return a rude comment or put them in the dunk tank with a well-thrown softball. You deserve it and so do they!
Might we say that we love the choice of clothing you've made for your driver's license photograph? That top frames your eyes and your jawline perfectly. Studies have shown that an attractive driver's license photo reduces the chances of an officer ultimately giving a ticket. If that's true, you just go as fast as you like and ignore the signs, because you fine girl [or male].
Okay, Beautiful — it's picture time! You sit right there on the duvet and we'll snap a picture until you're happy with the result. Oh my. Excuse me, but seeing you there under the light. It recalls a late winter afternoon in Paris with the sun setting, and you looking at us with the light reflecting in your eyes and the snow collecting on your scarf, the smell of chestnuts in the park. That moment was the best we ever had and we wanted to keep it forever. This license photo allows us to do just that.
Done! Gorgeous! And we're not one bit surprised, given your natural looks.
Almost finished. Please look at the information we have on file for you and confirm any changes. Feel free to shave off a few pounds, or a few years. There's nothing untoward about that. You just get younger and younger anyway.
Off you go. While you've been with us, our valets have detailed your car and changed your oil. They've also listened to your talkative teenager and advised him on summer camps. Take a breath mint with you.
Here at the DMV, we are happy to serve you. Our only regret is we won't see you for another four years. You're like family to us.
Vatican tackles PR problem by bashing nuns
You might think this was from The Onion. But it isn't.
My daughter goes to a Catholic school that has 6-8 nuns. As part of a fundraiser, one of the younger sisters has volunteered a whole weekend afternoon to take my daughter and three of her friends to a puppet show and to lunch, all from her own small salary.
When tattoos sag
I used to tend at a bar owned by a World War II vet. He helped defeat the Nazis and Hirohito, then he taught me how to make a martini. A real hero.
He came into the bar every night about 2 a.m. when we were getting ready to close. Counted the till and talked to me about the night. We'd have a drink and lock up about 3. Then he and his wife would come back at 9 the next morning to clean the place and cut fruit for the next day.
He had a tattoo on his forearm. I never asked him about it. I think it was associated with his service, which we didn't talk about, and I think that was the way he liked it. He had done his job and hoped nobody else would have to. That tattoo was the only reminder. I imagined he got it during leave with his buddies one day. A hot afternoon in Manila, on a dare when he was 20. Something like that.
That was the thing about that tattoo. It was set in a time and place memorable to him but timeless to everyone else.
I don't have a tattoo but I think that might be at least one appeal to getting one: You can stop time a little.
On the other hand — and this is the big down side for me — you've stopped time and you're stuck with what you thought was a good idea at that time that you've stopped. I just don't trust my judgment enough.
Tattoos have been around a long time but when they really gained steam 15 or 20 years ago I thought they would be just another fleeting trend. I was wrong (see what I mean about my judgment?). If anything, they've gotten bigger.
At one point, it might have been shocking to see your barista tatted on both sleeves wrist to bicep and up to his jaw. Now? But when I see that barista, I wonder what they'll look like in 20 years. A nice memory of a leave day in Manila? Or a permanent virus from some bad weeks in 2007?
Maybe that's another big draw to a tattoo: By getting one, you send the message that you had the guts to do it. Are guts enough? If his tattoo didn't work out, as a backup my bar guy always could say he helped win World War II. What does my barista have? A crappy tattoo that he can't take to the beach.
Yes, you can have them removed. But it's painful and expensive. A friend is now having one taken off his back. He said it cost him $75 and a little pain to get, $1,000 and a lot of pain to remove.
I anticipate a day when my daughter will ask to get one. I'll say okay, but let me show you some pictures of me in high school first. She'll see things I used to wear, and I'll tell her to consider this: I gave or threw those things away a long time ago. You can't throw your skin away. So, my advice will be to think long-term. Choose wisely. Or else you have live with the equivalent of a lifelong mullet.
Bad tax day for you? It could be worse.
It's always one of the worst days of the year. So many things can go wrong. You messed up on your withholding or didn't save the right receipts or are just bad at math. You're writing the IRS a check and then you read an article about the GSA party in Vegas or the Bridge to Nowhere.
Here you are slaving away at your work and the government is laughing at you and burning thousand dollar bills. It turns you into Archie Bunker.
Take heart: You could be in North Korea.
That's what I thought when I saw this story about a foreign press bus that took a wrong turn off the North Korean government-approved tour, allowing journalists to record a rare glimpse into everyday life for North Koreans:
Photographers leaned over their seats and clicked away as the North Korean officials, apparently paralyzed by fear of what would come from their mistake, did nothing to intervene. "Perhaps this is an incorrect road?" one of the tour's official government minders "mumbled" when the bus got lost, according to an Associated Press reporter who was riding along.
The few photos that got published show bleak scenes of the capital, Pyongyang, with concrete apartment buildings and dirt roads.
Then, curious, I started to look for more photos and came across a chilling one that showed an empty highway: 
It looks like a nice road. But it's empty here, and like most highways in North Korea, it's always empty because so few people own cars — there are only 20,000 automobiles in the whole country. If you are struggling to get enough to eat, a car might as well be a spaceship.
I'm not a person who goes around saying how much better the U.S. is than other countries. But something about seeing those pictures made it easier to file my tax forms this year. So as you write your check to the IRS, smile. We've got it good.
Battleship
Her first strike was made via an unorthodox attack on the A-1 position of my board. I had thought that the safest spot for my aircraft carrier, and lined it up straight on the edge from A-1 through E-1. Nobody puts their carrier, or really any of their five ships, right on the edge like that, and certainly not in a corner. You're supposed to put them out in the middle of that vast, wild blue ocean and make your opponent go on a wild goose chase.
That was the brilliance of my strategy: Nobody dares to position their ships on the board's edges. She would never find them.
But she did, and almost right away. That was when I understood who I was dealing with. She knew me and she knew my mind and she could see through my eyeballs and right to the middle of my brain and down into the depths of my soul. I might as well have turned my board around and showed her everything.
After a wrong guess to A-2, she quickly corrected and fired four straight hits, announced in a passionless but deadly voice: B-1, C-1, D-1, E-1. My carrier was now just a memory. It went down in flames on the dining room table. The queen is dead, long live the queen.
Of course, after that it didn't take her long to find my destroyer. I had craftily docked it right below the carrier, from A-7 through A-10. Yet she found it right away. My strategy lay in smoking tatters. Well, aren't you a cheeky little devil.
But I'm not a rookie either. I've been playing Battleship since way before she was in diapers. You don't panic. Keep calm and carry on.
There were a few minutes of misses on both ends. Then I got her patrol boat. Just the little one, but a moral victory just the same.
Within about 10 minutes, she had sunk my battleship and my cruiser. Now I understood her. She liked to prod around the fertile territory of the edges and that's where the booty was, of course. All that stood between me and total destruction was my submarine. It was the one piece I had put square in the middle of the board.
I looked out the window. It was a beautiful April day here in the nation's capital. The trees were almost completely leafed out and the lilacs were swollen on the branches. Pollen dust everywhere, on the cars and trees. The glass table was out there on the porch, where she had drawn a smiley face with her finger.
I sunk her destroyer and her carrier. It was mano a mano now. An old-fashioned knife fight.
Her squinting at her board. There was a mind whirling.
And then she found it. E-7, a direct hit. She had to explore a little more until she got the rest of it, but when she did she pounded it without mercy. The second and third missile in rapid succession. My submarine gurgled and bubbled and fell to the bottom of the ocean. Game over.
She was a gracious victor. We shook hands and agreed to battle again some day soon. As part of her spoils, she received a McDonald's strawberry-banana smoothie, which she sipped in her booster seat with the sun and shadows moving across her as we drove.
Man up! Eat a hot dog stuffed crust pizza
Who doesn't love a pizza? Who doesn't enjoy a hot dog? Until today, though, we ate them separately, at least in alternating bites.
But the geniuses at Pizza Hut, who brought us the cheese-stuffed crust pizza, have found a way to harmonize these two delicous foods: the hot dog-stuffed pie! Revolutionary! They take a simple pizza, and then a bunch of hot dogs, and wrap those weiners into the crust. One lucky journalist describes his taste test:
The sauce had a decent balance of sharp and sweet, the cheese was ungreasy and smooth, the toppings of chilli and onion brought a bit of lift. The bread was fake and weird but chewy like a bagel. I soon neared the end of my slice and its bedoughed, pink-brown phallus. I took a tentative bite.
It was a hot dog sausage. It was rubbery and processed and salty and smoky. How, in its own filthy way, could it be anything other than delicious? I peeled back its pappy cladding and gazed in conflicted seduction. I finished it. I had another slice. I put the box away. I came back a few minutes later and had another slice. ... Delicious.
Pappy cladding? Be-doughed, pink-brown phallus?
Me? I fear it. I'll eat anything once. I like squid in its own ink sauce. I've tried snake (bland). Deep-fried grasshoppers (salty and greasy like a fresh pretzel, but it's a grasshopper). And yet just the thought of a hot-dog stuffed pizza makes me reach for the Tums. And not just the normal Tums, but the Tums Extra Strength 750.
Anti-bullying campaigns: Good for the bullies too
I read once that scents never change. I believed it then, because the smell of that fence was exactly the same as when I was a kid playing inside it. And it made me think of a much colder day years ago when a boy was tied by his coat strings to that fence.
I'll call him Bill. Probably every classroom in the history of schools has had a Bill. He was a skinny kid who transferred to our elementary school class around fourth grade. He wore brown Toughskins that were always too short and showed an inch of sock above his unstylish sneakers. His hair was a little stringy and maybe a little greasy. It's harsh, but just calling it like it is: He was a bit of a geek.
So from the day he showed up, he was a target for the cruelty that kids can show. I don't think he ever got beaten up, and from what I remember he always sat with the rest of us at lunch and played with us at recess. But he was ostracized and ridiculed in other ways. He was always picked last. Nobody wanted to sit by him. The girls wouldn't give him the time of day. When school got out, he stood by himself and waited for his mom to pick him up while the rest of us played. I don't remember seeing him at any birthday parties.
Kids made fun of him to his face, and he would just take it. We had a small class, usually no more than nine boys, so there was nowhere for him to go.
One day in winter, we were out at early recess. Some guys took him to the chain-link fence, cinched the strings to his hood really tight so there was just a little hole for his nose to poke through, and then tied him to the fence.
The bell was about to ring. I went over and untied the strings. But I was no saint. I wasn't the meanest to him and liked him. I talked to him quite a bit. But I sometimes laughed at the hazing and rarely did much to stop it.
And I don't recall the teachers and administrators doing much either. Maybe they didn't notice what was going on, but I don't see how they couldn't have in that small school where it happened in plain sight.
At first, when anti-bullying campaigns like this started to gain steam, I thought it was a bit of an over-reaction. It didn't take me long to realize I was wrong. Looking back, I wish they would have taken us to the woodshed the minute we started to pick on Bill. It would have saved him from a lot of pain and all of us from bad memories.
Besides just growing up, I think I recognize the harm bullying can do because I got a small taste of it as a freshman in high school. I was the kind of kid whose ears grew faster than the rest of him, and I was a little geeky too, slow and small with big glasses. So what I faced really wasn't bullying, just some teasing. The older guys at school called me Ears and took my cookies at lunch.
One day, after football practice, I went into the shower. There were no stalls, just a bunch of showerheads and you stood there showering in front of God and everybody. A few seniors were already there. I cringed and started the fastest shower of my life in the far corner. As I started to shampoo my hair, I felt a presence around me and a sudden heat on my legs. I cleared off my eyes, and the seniors were standing in a semicircle, peeing on me.
Boys will be boys. Things like that are funny to me now, but they also give me chills because they make me think about what Bill went through every day. I try to be optimistic. Maybe it toughened him up. Maybe it wasn't that bad and he laughs about it now like I do.
I know that's probably not the case. I don't see how the bullying couldn't have affected the rest of his life.
Since my visit to the old school, I've tried to find him. I web searched him, found a Linkedin contact, and sent an invitation to connect. He accepted. But he never responded to my messages, and I'm not even sure it's the same Bill.
I guess I was looking for some kind of absolution, but it seems I may never get it. Maybe the few little tauntings I got were a small substitute. Or maybe it's just one of those times you don't get forgiven, when you just have to live with the smoldering.