Livin' in America
I'm laying down the marker right now - if I'm ever arrested for shooting a gun at my wife's car, there is a 100% chance that this is how I answer those charges:
May 19, 2008
This One's For the Ladies
My new column is up at the WPRI site. It attempts to explain why the number of female Republican legislators has plummeted in the past five years.
May 16, 2008
Brewers in the News
Last week, Sports Illustrated writer Lee Jenkins followed your Milwaukee Brewers around the country during their acrid road trip. The losing streak is chronicled in this excellent article, which includes a bizarre picture of Bob Uecker, shirtless and wearing uncomfortably small shorts:
May 15, 2008
Academic Excellence Personified
I've often made mention of how much I screwed off in college. My freshman year, the only real research I conducted was a detailed survey of the stores most likely to sell my roommate beer. (He had a fake ID, I did not.)
Given my current occupation, I got a kick out of this Virginia Tech report card I found from the second semester of my freshman year in 1992:
Check out the grade for "Intro to Government and Politics." Yep... that's not a misprint.
There actually is somewhat of an explanation. Virginia Tech had what they called the "freshman rule." Basically, your first year, you could take six credit hours and "freshman rule" them, meaning the grade would show up on your transcript, but the actual grades wouldn't be factored into your GPA. Thus, the zero points I got for Intro to Government didn't count against my otherwise stellar 2.15 grade point average. Basically, the class was too early in the morning, and I wasn't doing well in it anyway, so I just stopped going - knowing I could just freshman rule it. Not knowing, of course, that Government and Politics would one day become my profession.
Incidentally, following this semester, I dropped out of school for a semester and moved to Brookfield to build houses with my uncle. I was completely broke and my father (justifiably) refused to send me any more money, given the grades I was getting. It was at this point that I voted for the first time, for Russ Feingold and Bill Clinton.
Given my current occupation, I got a kick out of this Virginia Tech report card I found from the second semester of my freshman year in 1992:
Check out the grade for "Intro to Government and Politics." Yep... that's not a misprint.
There actually is somewhat of an explanation. Virginia Tech had what they called the "freshman rule." Basically, your first year, you could take six credit hours and "freshman rule" them, meaning the grade would show up on your transcript, but the actual grades wouldn't be factored into your GPA. Thus, the zero points I got for Intro to Government didn't count against my otherwise stellar 2.15 grade point average. Basically, the class was too early in the morning, and I wasn't doing well in it anyway, so I just stopped going - knowing I could just freshman rule it. Not knowing, of course, that Government and Politics would one day become my profession.
Incidentally, following this semester, I dropped out of school for a semester and moved to Brookfield to build houses with my uncle. I was completely broke and my father (justifiably) refused to send me any more money, given the grades I was getting. It was at this point that I voted for the first time, for Russ Feingold and Bill Clinton.
May 14, 2008
Mama, I'm Coming Home
Well, here I am at the airport again. After three days of looking at nothing but unfamiliar faces, it’ll be nice to be home. Just another four-hour flight ahead of me, then an hour drive from Mitchell Airport back home in Madison. Rumor has it my son just got his first professional haircut, so I’m anxious to see how he’s doing with the 2-year old ladies given his new look.
I gave my speech to the big Washington Policy Center health care convention yesterday, and I think it went pretty well. They were interested in hearing about the now-defunct Healthy Wisconsin universal government health plan, since a similar bill is being considered in the Washington Legislature. About a half hour before I gave my speech, I tried to practice it in my room, and I couldn’t do it. I was having panic attacks, because I just couldn’t spit anything out. Surprisingly, hitting myself in the head repeatedly and swearing wasn’t having any effect.
When speech time came, I was introduced by author Grace-Marie Turner (an extraordinarily nice woman), who told the crowd of 320 that I was some kind of TV star, because my WPRI bio mentions the little monthly “Here and Now” segments that I do. Basically, she set the bar really high for the crowd, which freaked me out even more. I think the key to being a good public speaker isn’t necessarily what you say, but actually believing you’re worthy of people paying $90 to see you speak. I’m certainly not there yet. Now, if they wanted me to talk about the Brewers for a half hour, I could have put on a show – although at points, it may have been profane.
But when I actually started talking, for some reason, it actually went smoother than when I practiced it beforehand. I threw in some so-so jokes, although I have to humbly admit that they’re probably better jokes than one normally hears at a convention of free market health advocates. Make the bar low enough, and I can usually leap it. I even got applause for one line, which I completely didn’t expect. After the speech, it was bizarre – I couldn’t walk ten feet without someone coming up to talk to me about health care. This was flattering, but I’m terrible at meeting new people, and it kind of weirded me out when I realized that people were actually kind of angling to come up and talk to me. After a half hour, I went up to my room and put on a baseball hat and glasses, hoping nobody would recognize me. Seemed to work well enough. There’s a good movie to be made about some delusional guy who thinks he’s famous because he gives speeches at think tank conventions.
After the speech, I stuck around for a couple more speeches, then snuck back to my room. For some reason, the internet connection and TV in my room wouldn’t work. So my big evening in Seattle consisted of going to the Tukwila Cinema to see Iron Man (awesome), and reading a book in the hotel bar. I just sat and read and drank beer until the words got blurry and I couldn’t really understand what it meant anymore. But strangely, throughout the night, the book got a lot thinner.
Sitting next to me at the bar was a couple who it seemed were just getting to know each other. Both divorced, both with kids. It didn’t occur to me how difficult it would be to start dating again when you’re divorced with children. Just so many trap doors to fall into. As if dating itself isn’t hard enough – dating with kids involved is like playing dodgeball with land mines. You could just hear the weariness in their voices as they tried to circumvent any topics that might evoke some horrible memory of their past marriage. Then I ate a club sandwich.
This morning, I got up and went to a little known local restaurant known as Denny’s for breakfast. It shocked me to see that the French Toast Slam is now almost eight bucks. As if there aren’t enough reasons to hate ethanol, the fact that the Moons Over My Hammy now costs as much as my mortgage payment should be the final straw.
I had some time before my flight to do some more sightseeing, so I wandered around the UW (the other one) campus for a couple hours. Their campus is beautiful – the walkways are bathed in dark evergreens. It’s another dreary, rainy day, but it would almost seem like I’d be getting cheated if it were any other way. Today is election day for their student government, so the kids were out handing out fliers like crazy. I actually walked right past Lorenzo Romar, the men’s basketball coach. I stopped by the bookstore and bought T-shirts for myself and a friend of mine. They actually sell anti-George W. Bush paraphernalia in their university bookstore.
I got back to the airport with plenty of time to spare, which was a good thing, since security took a while. I went through the whole bizarre ritual of taking off your shoes and belt and pants, then having to put them all back on after the metal detector. (Oh, wait – you don’t have to take your pants off?) This whole kabuki dance is a sight to behold – dozens of people simultaneously putting their belts and shoes back on. It’s like the end of some horrible group one-night stand gone bad.
I browsed around the magazines in one of the gift shops, and wondered, as I always do, exactly who buys Penthouse to take on a plane with them? Who on Earth can’t do without porn for a whole two-hour flight? (Four hours, MAYBE.) But just as I was pondering how someone could logistically view a money shot on a crowded flight, I looked over at the register, and sure enough – there was a guy walking out of the store with a magazine promising “100 Naked Beauties.” He was clutching it to his chest, trying to obscure its contents, but you could tell. I guess these days, you should almost give the guy credit. At least he was embarrassed about buying porn in an airport gift shop – that almost counts as chivalry in 2008.
So that leaves me here, sitting in the airport, plane delayed. A couple Brewer hats sprinkle the crowd, so you can tell where this plane is headed without even looking at the board. They just called for pre-boarding for people with “special needs.” There’s a guy wearing a Cubs hat in front of me and I refrain from joking to him that he should board now.
I gave my speech to the big Washington Policy Center health care convention yesterday, and I think it went pretty well. They were interested in hearing about the now-defunct Healthy Wisconsin universal government health plan, since a similar bill is being considered in the Washington Legislature. About a half hour before I gave my speech, I tried to practice it in my room, and I couldn’t do it. I was having panic attacks, because I just couldn’t spit anything out. Surprisingly, hitting myself in the head repeatedly and swearing wasn’t having any effect.
When speech time came, I was introduced by author Grace-Marie Turner (an extraordinarily nice woman), who told the crowd of 320 that I was some kind of TV star, because my WPRI bio mentions the little monthly “Here and Now” segments that I do. Basically, she set the bar really high for the crowd, which freaked me out even more. I think the key to being a good public speaker isn’t necessarily what you say, but actually believing you’re worthy of people paying $90 to see you speak. I’m certainly not there yet. Now, if they wanted me to talk about the Brewers for a half hour, I could have put on a show – although at points, it may have been profane.
But when I actually started talking, for some reason, it actually went smoother than when I practiced it beforehand. I threw in some so-so jokes, although I have to humbly admit that they’re probably better jokes than one normally hears at a convention of free market health advocates. Make the bar low enough, and I can usually leap it. I even got applause for one line, which I completely didn’t expect. After the speech, it was bizarre – I couldn’t walk ten feet without someone coming up to talk to me about health care. This was flattering, but I’m terrible at meeting new people, and it kind of weirded me out when I realized that people were actually kind of angling to come up and talk to me. After a half hour, I went up to my room and put on a baseball hat and glasses, hoping nobody would recognize me. Seemed to work well enough. There’s a good movie to be made about some delusional guy who thinks he’s famous because he gives speeches at think tank conventions.
After the speech, I stuck around for a couple more speeches, then snuck back to my room. For some reason, the internet connection and TV in my room wouldn’t work. So my big evening in Seattle consisted of going to the Tukwila Cinema to see Iron Man (awesome), and reading a book in the hotel bar. I just sat and read and drank beer until the words got blurry and I couldn’t really understand what it meant anymore. But strangely, throughout the night, the book got a lot thinner.
Sitting next to me at the bar was a couple who it seemed were just getting to know each other. Both divorced, both with kids. It didn’t occur to me how difficult it would be to start dating again when you’re divorced with children. Just so many trap doors to fall into. As if dating itself isn’t hard enough – dating with kids involved is like playing dodgeball with land mines. You could just hear the weariness in their voices as they tried to circumvent any topics that might evoke some horrible memory of their past marriage. Then I ate a club sandwich.
This morning, I got up and went to a little known local restaurant known as Denny’s for breakfast. It shocked me to see that the French Toast Slam is now almost eight bucks. As if there aren’t enough reasons to hate ethanol, the fact that the Moons Over My Hammy now costs as much as my mortgage payment should be the final straw.
I had some time before my flight to do some more sightseeing, so I wandered around the UW (the other one) campus for a couple hours. Their campus is beautiful – the walkways are bathed in dark evergreens. It’s another dreary, rainy day, but it would almost seem like I’d be getting cheated if it were any other way. Today is election day for their student government, so the kids were out handing out fliers like crazy. I actually walked right past Lorenzo Romar, the men’s basketball coach. I stopped by the bookstore and bought T-shirts for myself and a friend of mine. They actually sell anti-George W. Bush paraphernalia in their university bookstore.
I got back to the airport with plenty of time to spare, which was a good thing, since security took a while. I went through the whole bizarre ritual of taking off your shoes and belt and pants, then having to put them all back on after the metal detector. (Oh, wait – you don’t have to take your pants off?) This whole kabuki dance is a sight to behold – dozens of people simultaneously putting their belts and shoes back on. It’s like the end of some horrible group one-night stand gone bad.
I browsed around the magazines in one of the gift shops, and wondered, as I always do, exactly who buys Penthouse to take on a plane with them? Who on Earth can’t do without porn for a whole two-hour flight? (Four hours, MAYBE.) But just as I was pondering how someone could logistically view a money shot on a crowded flight, I looked over at the register, and sure enough – there was a guy walking out of the store with a magazine promising “100 Naked Beauties.” He was clutching it to his chest, trying to obscure its contents, but you could tell. I guess these days, you should almost give the guy credit. At least he was embarrassed about buying porn in an airport gift shop – that almost counts as chivalry in 2008.
So that leaves me here, sitting in the airport, plane delayed. A couple Brewer hats sprinkle the crowd, so you can tell where this plane is headed without even looking at the board. They just called for pre-boarding for people with “special needs.” There’s a guy wearing a Cubs hat in front of me and I refrain from joking to him that he should board now.
May 13, 2008
Debating Campaign Finance
It appears WisconsinEye has posted the video of my debate with Senator Jon Erpenbach, Senator Mike Ellis and Gail Shea regarding campaign finance reform. Prepare to be scintillated as the audience skewers me.
Part One
Part Two
Part One
Part Two
May 12, 2008
Feeling the Salt Air
I hopped right off the plane today and headed to downtown Seattle to see the sights. I was reluctant to go see the place where the people throw fish around, but a friend of mine insisted that was the place to be, so I decided I could handle being "touristy" and I went. After I saw all the markets, I just walked around downtown checking out restaurants and stores. Here are some fotografias:
Sadly, no fish went airborne while I was there.
Here's the Space Needle from First Street. This picture was taken right before someone who lives on First Street watered their window plants and dumped dirty water all over my head.
The two stadiums taxpayers just purchased the Seahawks and Mariners.
These parking meters had me completely confused. The problem wasn't parking downtown, it was figuring out how to pay to park.
Easy Street Records, where I was told I could get some good power-browsing in.
And, of course, no journey to Seattle would be complete without my quest to see the house Kurt Cobain killed himself in. Yes, I am aware of how lame this is. But I just had to do it.
The house is in an upscale lakefront neighborhood that's difficult to navigate, so I'm sure I looked like an idiot tourist driving around slowly. I'm pretty sure the neighbors have had it with morbid people like me. But I sucked it up and finally found the house, which, as you may expect, has high fences around the yard to block gawkers like me. Right next to the house, though, is a park that serves as a de facto vigil spot, where people still leave daily flowers on a bench:
For some reason, someone decided to leave a baby pacifier on the far end of the bench.
If you look closely, you can see a shout-out to Barack Obama on the back left side of the seat.
There's the top of the house. I think.
The evening wrapped up with a steak at Matt's in the Market, although the appeal of eating in a fancy restaurant is somewhat lessened when you're eating by yourself. I tried to explain to my waiter that I was in from out of town on business, but it was pretty clear he was ushering me out of there as soon as possible. I think the guy eating alone in the corner was depressing the rest of the customers.
Tonight will be comprised of getting my speech ready for tomorrow - a rockin' time, for sure. And there's a Taco Bell right next to the hotel, so the chances of a late night Grilled Stuft Burrito currently stand at 105%. I may even try to eat $10 worth of Taco Bell, a feat I still maintain is humanly impossible.
Sadly, no fish went airborne while I was there.
Here's the Space Needle from First Street. This picture was taken right before someone who lives on First Street watered their window plants and dumped dirty water all over my head.
The two stadiums taxpayers just purchased the Seahawks and Mariners.
These parking meters had me completely confused. The problem wasn't parking downtown, it was figuring out how to pay to park.
Easy Street Records, where I was told I could get some good power-browsing in.
And, of course, no journey to Seattle would be complete without my quest to see the house Kurt Cobain killed himself in. Yes, I am aware of how lame this is. But I just had to do it.
The house is in an upscale lakefront neighborhood that's difficult to navigate, so I'm sure I looked like an idiot tourist driving around slowly. I'm pretty sure the neighbors have had it with morbid people like me. But I sucked it up and finally found the house, which, as you may expect, has high fences around the yard to block gawkers like me. Right next to the house, though, is a park that serves as a de facto vigil spot, where people still leave daily flowers on a bench:
For some reason, someone decided to leave a baby pacifier on the far end of the bench.
If you look closely, you can see a shout-out to Barack Obama on the back left side of the seat.
There's the top of the house. I think.
The evening wrapped up with a steak at Matt's in the Market, although the appeal of eating in a fancy restaurant is somewhat lessened when you're eating by yourself. I tried to explain to my waiter that I was in from out of town on business, but it was pretty clear he was ushering me out of there as soon as possible. I think the guy eating alone in the corner was depressing the rest of the customers.
Tonight will be comprised of getting my speech ready for tomorrow - a rockin' time, for sure. And there's a Taco Bell right next to the hotel, so the chances of a late night Grilled Stuft Burrito currently stand at 105%. I may even try to eat $10 worth of Taco Bell, a feat I still maintain is humanly impossible.
Go West, Young Man
So here I am at the airport, waiting for my flight to Seattle. I’m headed out there for a big health care conference sponsored by the Washington Policy Center. My boss asked me if I wanted to go, and I said “sure,” thinking I’d really like to see Seattle. Then the WPC called me and asked if I had any materials to go with the presentation I had been giving. “The WHAT?” I inquired. So it appears I will be giving a speech on health care to 300 people tomorrow, and I still have no idea what I’m going to say. I guess I’ll figure it out on the plane.
This actually is my first real “business” trip, so I’m pretty excited. I almost feel like a real businessman with a real job. From now on, when I see all those commercials meant to appeal to business travelers, I’ll feel like they’re talking to me. Then, I’ll be able to say things like “why, yes – as a business traveler, I do appreciate having that extra pillow in my hotel room,” and “how does the movie “Midget Lingerie Party” show up on my corporate card?”
Of course, I have about an hour to kill here, since I got to Mitchell Airport early enough. They say you need to be here 90 minutes ahead of time, but that’s a total airline scam. It’s just a ploy on behalf of the airlines to make sure they don’t get a last minute crush of people screaming at their employees about how they have to get on their flight or the world will end. My wife is super-cautious about getting to airports early. Anything less than four hours before departure time is unacceptable. Which is especially fun when you have kids to entertain in the airport before the flight.
I actually do like the weird vibe in airports. I especially enjoy sitting here and watching the flights arrive. People walk off the plane, all with the same completely disoriented look on their face. Before 9/11, they used to lock in on the person there to pick them up, but now they have to wait until the baggage claim to have their big reunion. I always loved seeing the pure joy in peoples’ faces as they recognized someone they hadn’t seen in a while, then rushed into their embrace. Perhaps this is because nobody is ever really all that excited to see me. Except my dentist, who knows that when he sees me, he’ll be able to afford another wing on his office.
Before I came to sit down, I ran to the bathroom. It’s always a weird sight to see pilots in the bathroom taking a whizz. You tend to put pilots up on a superhuman pedestal – almost like they’re invincible. But there they are, taking dead aim at the urinal cakes next to you. It’s unnerving to realize that pilots are just regular human beings. I mean, what if this guy just found out his 15 year-old daughter knew Roger Clemens? What if just this morning he found out his wife had been finding comfort in the arms of Charlie Villanueva during his flights? I’d feel a lot better about things if my pilot was eating gravel and urinating glass shards. I want a real bad ass flying my plane.
So now I get to sit here and wait, surveying the crowd. If there’s any inviolate rule in boarding a plane, it is this: There is always some semi-attractive member of the opposite sex waiting for the plane that you decide it wouldn’t be too bad to sit next to. Not “supermodel hot,” but “airport hot.” Of course, you are all old and gross and married, but let’s be honest – it would certainly make the flight moderately more tolerable, right? Upon surveying this crowd, it appears the only candidate happens to have a six year-old boy in tow. That immediately disqualifies her from sitting within five rows of me.
Waiting for a flight watching the people also gives me a chance to play America’s favorite new games: “Daughter or Lover,” and “Gay or European?” Of course, after I make my guess, I’ll never know the answer, so the only real prize is the giggling I get to do quietly to myself.
Well, time to board my 4-hour flight. I’m not sure if it qualifies, but maybe I’ll try to join the mile-high club while flying solo. That should kill about 30 seconds. Sadly, they make you pay 8 bucks to connect to the wireless internet here at the airport, so I’ll have to wait until I get to my hotel room to post this.
This actually is my first real “business” trip, so I’m pretty excited. I almost feel like a real businessman with a real job. From now on, when I see all those commercials meant to appeal to business travelers, I’ll feel like they’re talking to me. Then, I’ll be able to say things like “why, yes – as a business traveler, I do appreciate having that extra pillow in my hotel room,” and “how does the movie “Midget Lingerie Party” show up on my corporate card?”
Of course, I have about an hour to kill here, since I got to Mitchell Airport early enough. They say you need to be here 90 minutes ahead of time, but that’s a total airline scam. It’s just a ploy on behalf of the airlines to make sure they don’t get a last minute crush of people screaming at their employees about how they have to get on their flight or the world will end. My wife is super-cautious about getting to airports early. Anything less than four hours before departure time is unacceptable. Which is especially fun when you have kids to entertain in the airport before the flight.
I actually do like the weird vibe in airports. I especially enjoy sitting here and watching the flights arrive. People walk off the plane, all with the same completely disoriented look on their face. Before 9/11, they used to lock in on the person there to pick them up, but now they have to wait until the baggage claim to have their big reunion. I always loved seeing the pure joy in peoples’ faces as they recognized someone they hadn’t seen in a while, then rushed into their embrace. Perhaps this is because nobody is ever really all that excited to see me. Except my dentist, who knows that when he sees me, he’ll be able to afford another wing on his office.
Before I came to sit down, I ran to the bathroom. It’s always a weird sight to see pilots in the bathroom taking a whizz. You tend to put pilots up on a superhuman pedestal – almost like they’re invincible. But there they are, taking dead aim at the urinal cakes next to you. It’s unnerving to realize that pilots are just regular human beings. I mean, what if this guy just found out his 15 year-old daughter knew Roger Clemens? What if just this morning he found out his wife had been finding comfort in the arms of Charlie Villanueva during his flights? I’d feel a lot better about things if my pilot was eating gravel and urinating glass shards. I want a real bad ass flying my plane.
So now I get to sit here and wait, surveying the crowd. If there’s any inviolate rule in boarding a plane, it is this: There is always some semi-attractive member of the opposite sex waiting for the plane that you decide it wouldn’t be too bad to sit next to. Not “supermodel hot,” but “airport hot.” Of course, you are all old and gross and married, but let’s be honest – it would certainly make the flight moderately more tolerable, right? Upon surveying this crowd, it appears the only candidate happens to have a six year-old boy in tow. That immediately disqualifies her from sitting within five rows of me.
Waiting for a flight watching the people also gives me a chance to play America’s favorite new games: “Daughter or Lover,” and “Gay or European?” Of course, after I make my guess, I’ll never know the answer, so the only real prize is the giggling I get to do quietly to myself.
Well, time to board my 4-hour flight. I’m not sure if it qualifies, but maybe I’ll try to join the mile-high club while flying solo. That should kill about 30 seconds. Sadly, they make you pay 8 bucks to connect to the wireless internet here at the airport, so I’ll have to wait until I get to my hotel room to post this.
May 9, 2008
Five Grand the Easy Way
Before today, the easiest way to make $5,000 was to spend an hour with Eliot Spitzer. But now, NASA has created a new program to pay you five grand per month for you to... lie in bed (Spitzer-free.)
Here's the deal:
Here's the important question: Do I get credit for time already served? If so, I'd be a millionaire.
Here's the deal:
Need a break from the working, walking, and standing required by the demanding and stressful life you lead?Well, pack your bags for Houston because NASA wants to pay you $17,000 to stay in bed for 90 straight days.
The bed-rest experiment, to take place in the Human Test Subject Facility of Johnson Space Center, is designed to allow scientists to study some of the effects of microgravity on the human body. We read on the Bed Rest Study website:
Participants will spend 90 days lying in bed, (except for limited times for specific tests) with their body slightly tilted downward (head down, feet up). Every day, they will be awake for 16 hours and lights out (asleep) for 8 hours.
Here's the important question: Do I get credit for time already served? If so, I'd be a millionaire.
Smiths Day
"Sheila, Take a Bow"
"There Is a Light That Never Goes Out"
"Girlfriend in a Coma"
And, of course, "How Soon is Now?"
And, as a bonus, here's Morrissey's "The More You Ignore Me, the Closer I Get," "Suedehead," "You're the One For Me, Fatty," and "Tomorrow." ("All I ask of you is one thing that you'll never do - just put your arms around me.") No payment necessary.
"There Is a Light That Never Goes Out"
"Girlfriend in a Coma"
And, of course, "How Soon is Now?"
And, as a bonus, here's Morrissey's "The More You Ignore Me, the Closer I Get," "Suedehead," "You're the One For Me, Fatty," and "Tomorrow." ("All I ask of you is one thing that you'll never do - just put your arms around me.") No payment necessary.
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