Divorce - The gift that keeps on giving

I just got back from dinner with one of my neighbors and a friend of hers who's visiting from a nearby state. I'll change the names to protect the innocent as well as the guilty.

Jane, my neighbor (and friend), I knew had been married for 38 years when her husband one day pretty much out of the blue said he was leaving. And he did. Jennifer, Jane's friend, had been married for 34 years when her husband totally out of the blue said he was leaving. And he did. This happened to both of them about the same time, about two years ago.

Neither Jane nor Jennifer have remarried. Both of their exes have, both to women they were seeing before they left. Both ex-spouses denied that there was anyone else when they left. In both cases, the grown kids dislike their dad's new wife. Jane's kids go with gritted teeth to events that include their dad's new wife (whom they wouldn't ever even consider calling their stepmother). Jennifer's kids aren't too receptive to going much of anywhere with their dad and his -- until today -- fiance.

Yes, Jennifer's ex got remarried today. Jennifer has a boyfriend of over a year so it wasn't as tough as it could have been. But her daughter -- we'll call her Jill -- had a rough day. Jill refused to go to dinner with them awhile ago -- I don't know the details -- and apparently the new wife-to-be (who is only a few years older than Jill) didn't take it very well. Jill didn't get an invitation to the wedding. Her brother did. Not cool.

It gets worse.

Daddy asked Jill if she was coming to the wedding. Jill said not if she didn't get an invitation, though privately she had already decided she wasn't going. Thursday, two days before the wedding, Jill's invitation came in the mail -- torn in two inside the envelope. That prompted Jill to decide to go -- wearing black. So she did. Must've been a fun day for all.

One of my male friends years ago got divorced and married the love of his life whom he'd met years before when he and his wife had been separated for a time. They never got over each other and finally he got out of his unhappy marriage and was free to marry her. I remember him telling me that he felt like he was in the corner in his living room watching the rest of the family live their lives. I said to him, "How sad for everyone," and he told me later that my comment had gotten him thinking and helped him to realize that he wasn't doing his family any favors by staying when he was so unhappy. His high-school-and-college-age kids had a problem with that. It got pretty bad. His daughter stepped in front of his car in the street to stop him one afternoon when he was on the way to her soccer game and screamed at him not to ever come to another of her games again. The good news is that a year later, she chose to go live with them. And, the jilted wife found someone she loved and also remarried.

I think the worst story I know of first hand came from a woman with an unusual name -- let's call her LaDonna. Her brothers also had fairly unusual names -- let's say Damian and Oscar. All were over 35. When it came out that their dad had been having an affair with a woman for some 20 years, it also came out that he had had three kids with her, one girl and two boys. Guess what their names were. Yep, LaDonna, Damian and Oscar. Can you imagine?!? All six kids were at that wedding. I lost touch with LaDonna so I don't know if that story had a happy ending or not, but I vividly remember the look of grim resolve covering up a soul-deep sorrow the day before the wedding.

I thought my divorce was bad, and it was, in its own way. Aren't they all? But it was 26 years ago so I'm long over it. People who get divorced from people with whom they have children have an especially challenging road. Like my friend Jennifer said tonight, "Divorce -- the gift that keeps on giving."

Tim Russert Gone? Say It Ain't So!

Returning from the grocery store awhile ago, the news was on and the graphic on the screen was "Remembering Tim Russert." The Washington, D.C., NBC affiliate I just happened to have on, WRC, was showing a clip of him talking about his father, about whom he'd written a book, Big Russ & Me, which became a best seller in 2004. I was confused. There he was, yet "remembering" means someone's gone.

Sure enough, Tim Russert collapsed at the station today and died. He was 58. I can't believe it.

Tim Russert was not only the absolute best and most knowledgeable political journalist on the planet, I believe, but also a warm, compassionate, dedicated, family-oriented guy who had a sense of humor and, most importantly, a sense of decency. He also was blessed with common sense above and beyond levels usually found in anybody, let alone a journalist (and I am one, so I can say that), let alone a political journalist.

Who could forget Russert explaining the 2000 presidential election with a white board and black marker, using low tech and common sense to make it all clear. Talk about unpretentious! And he knew his stuff. He understood the political system, the characters and the games inside and out. I always felt that I could trust anything he told me -- and I did feel like he was talking to me -- when it came to politics.

I lived and worked in the D.C. metro area for 18 months in 1996-1998. Before I moved there, I didn't watch the political talk shows on Sunday mornings, but his "Meet the Press" hooked me then, and I've been watching it ever since. Faithfully.

One of his best shows was in October when he devoted half of his program, as I recall, to interviewing presidential "candidate" Stephen Colbert. It was smart, clever, downright hilarious and just plain fun. How great of Russert to take a risk like that.

As I hear the tributes of colleagues, competitors and friends on WRC as the news of his death sinks in, people are saying he was "tough but fair," one of the greateset compliments anyone can pay a journalist, and that he listened to what his guests said, which too few do.

Tim Russert will be missed by people far and wide. I feel this loss personally. I will miss him for purely selfish reasons. How will we make it through this presidential election without his insight, without his translation of the gobblety gook, without his balance, without his passion and compassion, without his common sense? He is truly irreplaceable. It's so ironic that he died right as the election year heats up, and two days before Father's Day.

People are leaving flowers and mementos at the D.C. station for Russert. One is a small white board similar to the one he made famous. This one has written on it, "Tim, We will miss you." Amen.

New Orleans Up Close and Personal

On Monday about noon, I got to New Orleans with my journalist hat on to cover a conference -- "Building for Boomers and Beyond," put on by the National Association of Home Builders (NAHB) -- and had a few hours before the opening reception. On impulse I thought I'd rent a car for the afternoon and drive all around to see how the city was faring nearly three years after Katrina. But I hadn't reserved a car, and the only thing most of the car rental companies at the airport had were panel vans and trucks. Hertz quoted me a price of $177/day. Say whaaaaa????

I passed on that.

My conference was at a Sheraton, which I have nothing against, but I'm loyal to Hiltons and Marriotts for the points and because they fix things that go wrong and treat me well. My hotel, the Hilton on St. Charles Ave. downtown, was architecturally majestic and beautiful (especially inside), comfortable and close to where my conference was. They took great care of me, from the young, tall, good-lookin' hunk with the soft brown eyes who politely and sweetly opened the door for me every time I left and came back, to Ticara (sp?), who checked me in and gave me a beautiful room before the official check-in time.

Once my conference started, I figured there'd be no chance to see the city. But fortune shone down on me and my ENR correspondent colleague Angelle Bergeron (read her "Gumbo" blog on enr.com) was available last night and took me on a personal tour in her little red truck that people would kill for (the tour, not the truck). She knew where to go and gave me vivid descriptions of how things were and what the political landscape was and is. I felt like Linda Blair in The Exorcist; my head was spinning round and round trying to take in everything as we motored along. Thank you, Angelle!

Angelle took me all over, showed me the lower-income housing that's being rebuilt and the lower-income housing that is being demolished (for political reasons?), the mom-and-pop stores and hollowed-out fast food places that will never again open (adjacent to a sprinkling of ones that have), the blocks-long concrete slabs where a big shopping center used to be, the houses in the poorer sections and the middle-class sections that are still boarded up and dark, many with the big X'es on them that the government agencies put on early on to let everyone know what date they'd been there and what they'd found, including the number of dead. Fortunately, all of the houses we saw had "0" for the number of dead.

The skeleton of Six Flags amusement park is sad for the kids (of all ages) who don't have that fun place to go to anymore, and won't, apparently. The latticework of the roller coaster structure, the huge lidless eye of the ferris wheel frame, the deserted field of giant tinker toy-like rides.... It was ghostly. But it would be a great set for a scary or futuristic dark movie, especially if they blew it up. Then it wouldn't be a constant reminder.

The entire city and environs are just one big checkerboard of light and dark homes and buildings, the cleaned-up, occupied ones side by side with the boarded-up, X'd ones. Angelle said they call it the jack-o-lantern effect. Even downtown, which did not suffer that extensive damage, there are buildings with boards for doors. Nearly three years after Katrina! How do people live and keep their spirits up when every block has such in-your-face remnants of life as it used to be but will never be again. It's heartbreaking. But hopefully those people who are no longer there are living happy, prosperous lives wherever they are, and everyone is just where they should be (...and all of that Celestine Prophecy-like stuff).

After it got dark, we went to the gorgeous, historic Columns Hotel to hear live jazz. Angelle knew one of the guys who was playing and the name of the oldster who had his trumpet with him and just started playing from his seat in the small parlor-type room where they were playing. He wowed everyone and, of course, he was invited to join them. Everyone seemed to know who he was. As they were playing the dreamy, creamy jazz and my foot was tapping, I was also enraptured by the 20-foot ceilings and elaborate crown molding in the place. What must life have been like back when it was built, in 1883? And why did they have such high, high ceilings? I should ask one of my architect friends.

I was last in New Orleans two weeks before Katrina and have not been eager to return. I'd rather remember it alive and well. But I'm glad I saw it again. It's like seeing an old friend 30 years later. "You look just like you did - you look great!" Uh huh. But we love them anyway.

I Just Don't Get It

I was on a New Jersey Transit train, the North Jersey Coast line, going from New York City's Penn Station to Woodbridge, N.J., where my car was. It was late last night, about 11:30 p.m. Most every seat had at least one occupant in it but, fortunately, it wasn't crowded like it gets after Madison Square Garden has a concert or a Rangers hockey game.

A few rows behind me, I could hear, in fact we all could, three or four very loud black young men, probably around 20 years old, talking loudly, clearly with the intention of aurally hijacking everyone in the car. One in particular, clearly the ringleader, was cursing to the point that "muthahf*ckah" was about every fourth word. Everybody else in the car, probably 60 to 75 people, were quiet or talking softly. These guys dominated the space. I never looked back to see what they looked like.

They didn't get off at Newark, which was about 20 minutes out of New York. I then hoped they'd get off at Elizabeth, about 10 more minutes into the ride. That would at least leave me 10 or 15 minutes of peace before my station at Woodbridge. Elizabeth just seems to be the station where a lot of rowdy kids and adults (of all races) get off (and on), so that's why I hoped for Elizabeth.

Sure enough, four surprisingly clean-cut, well-dressed, nice-looking black kids filed up the aisle to get off at Elizabeth, with the loudmouth spewing his f*ck-you attitude all the way out the door. (Usually venomous loudmouthed kids look the part more than these did.) I was relieved.

But it was short-lived. The white, quite-unattractive 30's-age woman sitting one row in front of me and across the aisle and the 50's-ish, Joe-normal-looking man sitting with his wife in the seat in front of me commented on how obnoxious the guys had been who'd just left. Fine. But then they got carried away and talked INCESSANTLY and almost as loudly, though with no vulgar language, about things people on trains pontificate about, namely complaints about nearly everything and how wrong, sleazy and corrupt everyone in government is, especially in New York and New Jersey. I tried to ignore them, zoning in as much as I could on the paperback murder mystery I was reading.

They got to talking about Donald Trump and New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg and some other rich, famous or political figures. Ignore, ignore, ignore. I looked around. We were nearly to the Rahway station, just one before mine at Woodbridge, and the crowd had thinned considerably. The only other person near me other than the whining, intrusive, loud, abrasive white folks in front of me was a quiet, nice-looking young black man in the seat across the aisle from me.

I went back to my book. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

Then the man in front of me pierced my concentration when he said, "I'd vote for him before I'd vote for that black guy." I have no idea who he was referring to, but his derisive tone made it clear that he didn't like either one. I really couldn't believe this white asshole had said that, regardless of who he was talking about, in a public venue in a loud voice to someone he didn't know with other people he didn't know around him.

I glanced over at the young black man across the aisle from me. He'd been minding his own business, as had I, but that one sentence jolted us into attentiveness. His eyes locked with mine. I pursed my lips, shook my head and rolled my eyes. His expression back to me was nonverbal also, but it was clear. He'd heard this kind of thing before. He considered the source, just like I consider the source when an ingorant chauvinist makes some comment about some woman's knockers in front of me as if I'm not there and he's not offending anyone.

The young man rose from his seat and walked up the aisle to get off at Rahway. He was peaceful in who he was, not angry or vengeful. He and I smiled at each other, making a brief soul-to-soul connection. It was a nice moment.

I only had about five more minutes left to endure the obnoxious white people before we hit Woodbridge. I got off the train, not looking at them. I left them behind. My world was quiet again. It was a nice moment.

Screw It. Let's Ride

I don't know about you, but I'm sick to death of hearing about the recession, about the murders, about the rapes and the burglaries and the Internet rip-offs and the divided Democratic party. I've had enough of the bad news about outrageously high gas prices, soaring food costs and pregnant, drug-addicted, shoplifting starlets. I'm tired of war and hunger and poverty and tragedy. I am sickened when I hear about shady merchants, screwed-up troublemaking kids, cockroaches and rats in beloved restaurants, defective machines and gadgets, and projections of skyrocketing numbers of us who will end up with Alzheimer's if we live past age 80.

Every day is a 24-hour visit to the Disneyland of bad news. It's depressing, upsetting and disheartening to just watch the news on tv. At least on the Internet, you can get amusingly distracted by stories that suggest we are close to teleportation, and that eating chocolate/drinking alcohol/watching tv for 20 hours a day are really good for you after all. We can get diverted from the heaviness of the world by stories about the latest sports scores, or a dog nursing motherless kittens, or that Will Ferrell will be taking over from Conan O'Brien when he takes over from Jay Leno.

Our own lives are challenging enough. I am a great advocate of escape: 300-page mysteries and thrillers, tv comedy-dramas, action-packed movies, plentiful chocolate (or Baskin-Robbins' pralines 'n' cream), long phone calls to confidantes, quick dinners with friends, impulse golf on a weekday, luxurious sleep. And I'm also an optimist. Somehow I do think things will work out okay. A book that inspires optimism and is thought-provoking as well is The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable by Nassim Nicholas Taleb. I love the premise, namely that the events and happenings that have the greatest influence in our lives are neither probable nor predictable. The greatest example in recent years is 9-11. Okay, so that's not very uplifting, but the point is that because the biggest influencers in our world are neither probable nor predictable, there's no use worrying about the future. Whatever we're worrying about will probably be trumped by something we have no idea will happen.

I believe in the power of the positive. I sometimes fall into a pit but overall, I think if you keep good thoughts and pictures in your head of what you'd like your life to be like, you stand a better chance of living those pictures than if you wallow in the negative. So I love it when somebody has the balls to go against the popular whine of the moment and take a stand for us as strong conquering heroes! Sometimes I think that people think anyone who's positive is stupid or at least unenlightened. It's much more fashionable to complain and badmouth everyone and everything.

So kudos, I say, to Harley-Davidson. Baby boomers' favorite motorcycle company, the one whose cachet can turn a 145-pound, pale-skinned accountant into an intimidator just by giving him some shades, a leather jacket and a Harley, has a new in-your-face advertising campaign that reeks of optimism. And macho cheekiness.

The print ad shouts: "We don't do fear!" It explains: "Over the last 105 years in the saddle. we've seen wars, conflicts, depression, recession, resistance, and revolutions. We've watched a thousand hand-wringing pundits disappear in our rear-view mirror. But every time, this country has come out stronger than before, because chrome and asphalt put distance between you and whatever the world can throw at you. Freedom and wind outlast hard times. And the rumble of an engine drowns out all the spin on the evening news. If 105 years have proved one thing, it's that fear sucks and it doesn't last long. So screw it, let's ride."

Yes!!!

I will probably never own a Harley or any other motorcycle. But whenever I see a Harley rider on the road, cloaked in a t-shirt or leather jacket with the distinctive Harley insignia on his back (or her back), my heart flutters and some part of me leaps out, grabs onto the back of his seat, and flies away from the ugliness and the weight of the world into some stunning sunset ahead, and freedom! So thanks, Harley-Davidson for this we-don't-have-to-take-it-anymore message. Yes, I'm a baby boomer, and it takes a Harley-Davidson to remind me of my rebellious, adventurous, give-em-hell baby boomer heritage. So screw it, let's ride.

Give Me My Personal Space (Whatever That Is)

Right now as I wend my way to Boston to serve as a judge for the Society for Marketing Professional Services' (SMPS) annual Marketing Communication Awards, on this Amtrak train, I've just had my personal space violated. So did the man across from me.

It's a Friday afternoon, so the train is crowded. A tall, imposing, serious-looking man and his well-mannered college-age daughter boarded somewhere north of Manhattan and looked for seats together. I am in a window seat so he nabbed the aisle seat next to me. The rather distinguished older (about 70-ish, I'd say) gentleman across the aisle was sitting in the aisle seat; the window seat next to him was free. Mr. Imposing said to Mr. Older, "Would you move over." Didn't ask, told. After just one "Pardon?" the gentleman moved over. The daughter sat down. I found it fascinating that after shoving aside the older, weaker man, father and daughter didn't exchange two words all the way to Kingston, R.I., where I concluded she went to college.

So Mr. Imposing sat next to me, whipped out the latest issue of Newsweek and proceeded to read it, not like a considerate passenger but more like King of the Hill. He did the obnoxious male thing of splaying his legs at nearly a 90-degree angle so his knee encroached on "my" space about three inches, which my leg had already claimed. I didn't like playing kneesies with him but I am not a stubborn German for nothing, so I didn't concede the space. Eventually he almost imperceptably pulled in so that he only crossed over maybe an inch.

Personal space is such a relative thing. When I routinely rode the New York subway, there were days when violating my personal space meant that the man whose body was crushed into mine in the sardines-like crowd didn't put his hands directly on me. Other days it meant leaving an empty seat between me and someone else.

In Manhattan, people are so used to limited personal space that it always amazed me when in a not-very-crowded movie theater, people would squish in between strangers in the same row 1/3 of the way back in the middle when there were rows and rows of empty seats.

My men friends report extreme discomfort when they're alone at a urinal in a restaurant or sports venue and another guy enters and chooses the urinal next to them rather than one farther away. For women, we feel that someone just within listening distance in a fairly empty public rest room is a violation of our personal space.

Then we can go the other way entirely when we have a close relationship with someone. How many people complain that their significant other won't enter their personal space, the very lack of which indicates that the relationship has some healing to do? An involuntary recoiling from a spouse's touch says, "Get out of my space!" much more powerfully than words. It's beyond me how married couples can go weeks or months or even years without touching beyond what a stranger or casual acquaintance might get away with. But that's another subject. And what do I know -- I was only married long ago for two years anyway.

So Mr. Imposing and his daughter got off the train and the gentleman across the aisle wordlessly moved back over to the aisle seat. I put my purse, my book and my empty small Utz Cheesier Nacho Tortillas bag on the seat next to me as a deterrent and a "leave me be" message so I can enjoy my personal space invader-free for the last hour and a half of my trip. Hey, it's not that I'm selfish, inconsiderate and rude. I'm an only child, used to lots of privacy and personal space. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

Penn Station at 2:00 a.m.

I had a reason to be in Manhattan today and, as the weather was rainy and messy where I live, I decided to take Amtrak to New York Penn Station rather than drive. I didn't get finished until 11:00 p.m. and the last Amtrak train south leaves at 10:00ish p.m. The next one isn't until 3:00 a.m. Amtrak, what in the hell are you thinking?!?!? Or not thinking, is more like it.

Anyway, so I opted to sit in the Amtrak "lounge" at Penn Station for 3-1/2 hours, from 11:30 p.m. until my train boards a little before 3:00 a.m. The people I was with invited me to stay with them "just 10 minutes away" rather than go to Penn Station ("Penn Station" said with a curled lip and a disgusted tone) at this hour.

Well, that was a gracious invitation, but 1) there's no such thing as "just 10 minutes away" and I'm more up for navigating Penn Station at this hour than the New York City subway, 2) I am prepared with my laptop, a good book (David Baldacci's latest paperback, Simple Genius) and my journal to keep me entertained, 3) people watching is best done solo...and, of course, there are The People of Penn Station, who are a story (or 100 stories at this hour) unto itself. This is actually a higher-class crowd at 2:00 a.m. than at noon or 6:00 or 8:00, probably because pickpockets and other ne'er-do-wells thrive in crowds, and there are sparse clusters or singles solo but close by others, and it's harder to sneak around and do ugly things in this atmosphere.

The Amtrak "lounge" is hardly that. It's made up of two sprawling sectors, a bigger one for Acela Express passengers, and the other, the one I'm in, is smaller, though it still has more than 40 rows of 6 blue not-too-comfortable-not-too-uncomfortable padded chairs with steel (not plastic, yay!) arms and frames, a sprinkling of monitors displaying Amtrak and New Jersey Transit trains statuses (stati? -- hey, it's late), a handful of 2-1/2-ft-dia. black round cylinders that people use as tables for their laptops or fast food. No restrooms (though the public ones are close by), no food or drink vendors or machines...oh, and a spectacular view. The view is of Penn Station's middle area where the big board is that's in all the movies. And usually throngs of fascinating humanity. Just not at 2:00 a.m.


Hmmm...I just popped out of the "lounge" and took a picture of the big board, several, in fact. An Army trooper came up to me and said to me, "Ma'am, you're not allowed to take pictures of the big board. It's very sensitive, who sees it." Wow, haven't heard that before. A zillion people must take pictures of that board every year. Well, the good news is that he didn't ask me to delete the pictures or take my camera away. I'd have a big problem with that. By then I already had my pictures, so I choose to think he was being kind by letting me finish before he said anything.

Penn Station at 2:00 a.m. probably isn't what you picture, even if you live here. There are always people sleeping in the doorways, along the walls (one or two -- it's not like a line-up of 'em) and on the stairs in Penn Station (and many other public places in Manhattan), and they're no scarier at 2:00 a.m. than at noon. They just want to sleep. A few of the food and coffee places are open and the place is as brightly lit as during the day. It's like Las Vegas -- you can't tell what time of day it is by looking.

Classical music plays in Penn Station 24/7. Some classical music can be dreary and dirgy, but they tend to keep it on the livelier side here, so that's a combination of soothing and energizing. I always picture it as calming the unruly crowds when the trains are late, which is all too often. The worst I remember was on St. Patrick's Day night a couple of years ago. I was working at Two Penn Plaza, right here at Penn Station, but I had my movie class that night and got back to Penn Station about 9:00 p.m. to take New Jersey Transit. Trains were hours late, St. Patrick's Day celebrants were rowdy, impatient, drunk and (some were) sick. Oh joy. The trains finally started moving and we crammed into the car...and...didn't move for half an hour. Longest half hour of my life. Not fun. Could've used louder classical music that night.

Anyway, I'm inexplicably awake at this hour, even as people doze and wobble as they nod off and even snore loudly around me. I'm waiting til I get on the train, and then I'll try to catch a 3-hour nap if I can.

A very nice, smart, charming, good looking and interesting man has been trying to chat me up as I've been writing this. He's been asking me lots of questions and making little comments to try to draw me out -- I can relate to that; that's what I do myself. I've been only semi-responsive because I'm focused on writing this. He's dying to know what I'm writing about him. It's not about him, but just to note that he's part of my experience here, I asked him his name. Thanks, Glen, for your flattering attention.

Okay, I'm finally getting tired. The train'll be here, God and Amtrak willing, in half an hour. I think I can make it until then....

Target #8 and Love Potion #9

Earlier this week, my neighbor and co-conspirator Cathy and I were chatting with one of the two fabulous high school kids we're mentors for in our Knowledge To Go mentoring program at a local high school. We asked him what he was going to do this summer. He said he might get a job. He's 16. Good for him!

So of course she and I got to reminiscing about our first jobs. My very first job at 16 was as a cashier in the ticket booth at the Valley Drive-In Theater in Denver. It was in Southeast Denver on E. Evans and S. Monaco, as I recall, which wasn't yet a thru street. The Valley Drive-In is looooong gone now. That was quite a summer. That job was a movie lover's dream. I got to see all of the movies in the Wolfberg Theaters chain for free all summer. (Scroll down to the comments section when you click on the link.) I pretty much only went to the movies at my own drive-in, and that was after my shift was over. In those days, the drive-ins replayed the first movie after the second movie ran. Ah, double features. And a cartoon first. A long lost mem'ry.

My manager, Dave M. (I'll not use his last name to protect the guilty) was just 24, which seemed very old to me at the time. Well, very mature, at least. Ha! He loved to catch kids who sneaked in by hiding in the trunk. He was always suspicious of a car with just one person in it, and, sure enough, he caught many by just nailing the one-person cars.

He also loved to catch lovers in the act. One of my fellow high-schoolers would come to the drive-in nearly every Saturday night with her boyfriend, and Dave was laying for her (so to speak). Finally one night, he struck it rich. He caught them -- he told me he wanted to tell the guy to move over so he could take a turn -- and hauled them into the office and gave them a serious talking to. He knew he wasn't going to turn them in to the police -- he just wanted to scare them. He really got a charge out of doing that. Dave also drove me around in his red Mustang and showed me where the used condoms were on the ground -- I'd never seen a condom, new or used -- and he'd lament if he hadn't caught the wearers. I don't know if he was some kind of a pedophile or just a horny 24-year-old. I certainly didn't think about it at the time, innocent and wide-eyed as I was. (I didn't share anything in this paragraph with my high school mentee.)

The next summer, between high school graduation and the start of my freshman year of college, I worked at Target. I was a "floater," someone who filled in for people who were on vacation or out sick or worked in departments that were short-handed. I worked in nearly every department in the store that summer and got to know where everything was. Men's was probably the most fun department, even though many more women shopped in Men's than men. Wigs was the worst department because it was so dead. Working at Target that summer was fun. I flirted with one of the stock boys, who was also there for the summer before starting college. His name was Lanny, as I recall. He flirted back, but we never progressed beyond that.

Target had really cheapo clothes back then, so I didn't stock up. It's come a long way.... I go to my neighborhood Target quite a bit, though still not for clothes.

A friend of mine accused me of making it up that I worked at Target back then, since she insisted that there were no Targets back in those oooooold days. Well, I knew I did work at a real, genuine Target (same distinctive logo all these years). I ran into a construction exec from Target shortly after that and told him what my friend had said. He said that store, on Colorado Boulevard in Denver, was Target Store #8. So there, Michele!

Oops...I just remembered what my very first job was. I was probably around 9 or 10, 11 at the most. I sent away for Parchment Charm All-Occasion Cards and sold them door-to-door in the neighborhood. In those days, you could do that, even if you were just 10. I was not good at sales then. I think my pitch was something like, "You wouldn't want to buy some Parchment Charm All-Occasion Cards, would you?" Aaaaargh!

By the time I sold Avon door-to-door at the Coronado Club singles apartment complex in Denver when I was 21, I had a little better sales pitch. I consistently sold a whole bunch of Wild Country men's after shave and cologne (which, amazingly, they still sell) but just a handful of other products, and my district manager wanted to know why. It was quite simple. I really liked Wild Country -- I thought of it as Love Potion #9 -- and the guys in the complex figured, "If it has that effect on her...I'll try it." Sales -- and life -- were so simple then. But no, I wouldn't want to go back to that era. I'll take now.

Google to Earth: April Fool!

Every April Fool's Day, Google's creative types come up with a doozy of an authentic-looking page for their Gmail e-mail sign-in page. Every year, some people believe it's real.

This year's is brilliant! Who's not wanted this: "Gmail Custom Time" -- where their system will allow you to pre-date e-mail messages so they appear to be sent on time or in time instead of late. Handy for birthdays you forgot, deadlines you've missed, appointments you blew off and other things that clog up your prime time that now you can handle whenever you damn well get around to it. Wow!



That page looks legit, if you go just by looks. Same style as the usual page, etc. So if you don't really read the words carefully, you could (well, some could) think it was real. But for people who didn't get it the first time, the page you click onto to "learn more" should wake them up. The fake testimonials are so far out there that even the dimmest bulb should realize it's a joke.



My favorite faux testimonial:
"I used to be an honest person; but now I don't have to be. It's just so much easier this way. I've gained a lot of productivity by not having to think about doing the 'right' thing."
Todd J., Investment Banker


Happy April Fool's Day!

Remorse? Or Regret for Getting Caught? Either Way, It's Also an AFOG

"The remorse I feel will always be with me." When New York Governor Eliot Spitzer delivered that line in his resignation announcement today, my eyes rolled.

Remorse? I don't know how much remorse you can have for something you've been doing for a decade if the only reason you stopped was that you got caught.

One thing is for sure: The Spitzer family has been thrust into a transition from one family dynamic to another. What that ends up being is up to them. In one well-known 12-step program, I've heard it called an AFOG -- another fucking opportunity to grow.

Silda Spitzer was inches away from her husband during both his Monday press conference and his resignation announcement today. She had her neutral to grim mask in place -- who wouldn't? People criticize wives for "standing by their men" in public when those men are labeled by many as cads, cheaters and liars (those all usually go together). No one knows why those women do that. They are probably in shock at that time and don't know why they do it either, other than that's what their man wants and everyone wants to look as "less bad" as possible.

I think it's nobody's business whether the woman sticks with her husband after this kind of thing or not. We all spend so much of our lives striving to "be right" and "look good," and there's more than that at stake. Hillary Clinton made her choice and stuck with Bill. People say that's because of her political ambitions and make jokes about her freezing him out from that moment forward. Maybe she does, maybe she doesn't. Relationships are complicated living things, and how they are depends entirely on the people involved, not on convention, mores, laws or other people's expectations, though we often succumb to those things in the process.

Forgiveness is powerful. So is communication. Love is most powerful of all. I believe those three things can conquer anything. Not necessarily "will" but "can."

I know of a couple -- he cheated on his wife with multiple partners and one of them ratted him out to his wife. They were set to split, but she ended up asking him to go with her to a couples retreat as a last-ditch effort. He went just to humor her and to be able to lie to himself that he'd done everything he could. He had no intention of fully participating in it. Well, surprise! He cried for 3 days and they communicated on a real level for the first time in a long time. He ended up recommitting to his marriage and they are still together. Part of that involved coming clean to her about everything, not easy for him to reveal or her to hear, and then they could, with counseling, deal with everything. They became truly close as a result and their marriage was transformed. I know of another couple in a similar situation where the wife was the one who strayed -- with more than a dozen partners, in fact -- and it had a similar outcome. Rare, but possible.

Right now all of the Spitzers are devastated. They'll find out who their real friends are, that's for sure. I guarantee they'll be shocked both at who turns their backs on them and who supports them. Each member of the family probably feels as though they won't live through this. But they will. They don't have to fall apart and get caught up in the rightness, wrongness and how it all appears. With time and a lot of help both from friends and professionals, they can forge a completely new family dynamic that's real and strong and completely transformed from the one they've had. I wish them the best!

Sex Nails Another Politician

I just happened to be in Manhattan yesterday when the story broke that New York Governor Eliot Spitzer, the Mr. Clean of New York politics, was linked to a prostitution ring. It takes a lot to shock New Yorkers, but this definitely did the trick (pun intended). Now a lot of people are calling for his resignation. We'll see what happens.

Should he resign? As a former attorney general who went after all kinds of illegal behavior, including prostitution, a lot of people say yes. I say he falls into the same category as Richard Nixon with Watergate and President Clinton with Monica Lewinsky. Some of their predecessors did the same thing -- they were just the first ones to get caught and punished for it. I mean, c'mon, could he possibly be the first big-city-governor-who-used-to-be-an-AG to enjoy the services of a hooker?

I wonder which is perceived to be worse in the eyes of the public: Spitzer visiting hookers or Clinton getting a blow job in the White House. Both show poor judgement, given their political position. But both are just sex, and why should sex between two consenting adults, whether for pay or not, be illegal? I don't think it should be.

In this case, obviously Spitzer showed poor judgement. When men think with their little head vs. their big head, that happens. And that happens all the time.

As a journalist, over the years I've gotten to know well a lot of powerful men. They have several things in common: They live outside the lines. They get special treatment wherever they go. They get sheltered from bad news, especially about themselves. They are high energy people, which often includes a high libido. Many of them have dutiful wives who make great lieutenants but lousy lovers, or at least that's what they'd have you believe. Their power and/or money attract a lot of seductive women. And a lot of their business happens behind closed doors -- in the form of all variety of meetings -- and they're used to their confidentiality being protected.

So, of course Spitzer thought he was playing in the same arena as he has been for years, and he no doubt thought he would be protected by the people who've always protected him. But sex is a great divider. People who will put up with other shenanigans and even participate as buddies in illegal ventures can take a very different view of sexual behavior that's outside the socially acceptable norm, which usually equates to illegal. Their self-righteous little angry devil on their shoulder stabs them and they're liable to do something out of character, like rat on the guy. Who knows what happened in this case. But no secret is truly safe, especially when it involves something as juicy as a sex scandal.

It is beyond me why so much about sex is illegal. In some states, oral sex or anal sex is illegal, even between married people behind their own closed doors. Prostitution is illegal in many places but not illegal in others, especially outside the U.S. (Too bad Spitzer didn't just go to the Chicken Ranch or its equivalent in Las Vegas. Then it would have been poor judgement, but not illegal.) In my opinion, sex of any kind between two consenting adults in the privacy of their own home or a hotel room is none of the government's business. The key words are "consenting adults."

Why are some of our laws regarding sex so arcane? Well, what legislator wants his or her name on a bill that legalizes anal sex? So in many areas, they just don't enforce those statutes.

Tonight Eliot Spitzer is in serious, deep pain, and he knows that pain will not go away for a loooooong, long time. The searing, numbing pain that Silda Spitzer is no doubt going through is made worse by the fact that it was probably a complete surprise until a few days ago. Her dream world -- past, present and future -- is shattered. Plus, all of this is public. My heart goes out to her.

Tonight a lot of married men who have gone to a hooker or who are having sexual relations outside of their marriage are probably not going to sleep as well as they did last week, between the guilt and the fear and the gratitude that it's not them -- this time.

Living as My Higher Self

Living as Ego is tough. Ego expects me to be successful in corporate America as I was for most of my adult life. Ego wants me to be everything in my bio that I send to groups before I am the featured speaker, but not anything that I fear they will find out about me that could wipe out my "p.r. persona" -- stuff like that I sometimes don't get dressed until noon, and I sometimes eat a pint of ice cream within an hour's time, and I sometimes actually watch daytime TV now that I don't have to go to an office every day (though I haven't sunk to "Maury," "Jerry Springer" or "General Hospital"...so far). Ego cares about what people think of me and will go to great lengths to not let me look bad. Ego keeps telling me how I'm failing, that I'm bad, that things are going downhill, that I've not done my life right and it "shoulds" on me relentlessly. It also has gallows humor and ends up laughing at me and cracks me up. Thank God for comic relief.

I've long wrestled with my ego. My ego wants to prevail over my higher self. My higher self whispers and gently floats in the air. My ego is large and heavy and has more arms and tentacles than an octopus. My ego in the form of my relentless, chattering, whining, battering, screaming, judgemental mind often seems to envelop me and render me unable to move. My ego wants me to think my way into and out of things. My ego barrages me with critical, negative, scary, exhausting thoughts, interspersed with less frequent gifts of gratitude, delight, peace and love. At night I go to sleep with the TV playing softly because my mind starts in on me with all of its wranglings, so the TV helps to lull it into behaving itself so I can sleep. I know I'm not the Lone Ranger because friends -- positive, successful friends -- describe similar scenarios.

Oprah is leading online "classes" discussing Eckhart Tolle's book A New Earth. I didn't watch Monday night's first Web class live and didn't intend to watch it at all. But yesterday I got curious. Tolle also wrote The Power of Now, which is heavy reading but awesome. So I watched it on Oprah.com. (You can also download it and watch it on a video iPod.)

The discussion was inspiring. What I loved most was Tolle's reminder that we are not our thoughts or our minds. We are separate from them. We are miraculous spirits no matter what we think or even do. No matter how far down we sink, that spirit, that goodness is still there and available to us in an instant. My arm immediately stopped thumping on me.

So I ordered the book. I may even watch the first class again, especially since my arm started beating on me again within hours of my good thoughts. Maybe minutes. Retraining our minds is about as easy as running a marathon with a broken ankle.

My higher self really would love to triumph over my ego. Tolle says that it starts with allowing ourselves to bathe in silence. Often. I am allergic to silence. I have the TV or radio on in the background while I work or do chores or read or do nearly anything. But yesterday while driving, I turned the radio off and stayed off my cell phone. Driving was an entirely different experience. I was aware of new details, sensations and sounds and was surrounded by a spirit I was unfamiliar with. My own? I even slept with the TV off last night too. This could be the beginning of a whole new relationship with my higher self.... Oops, my ego heard that and is already mounting an argument. Stay tuned.

Charles and Camilla: One of History's Great Love Stories

Many years ago, a miniseries ran on TV dramatizing the relationship between Britain's King Edward VIII and married American socialite Wallis Simpson. Edward abdicated his throne in late 1936 to marry her -- she had divorced her second husband (who supposedly also had been married when she met him) -- and after they wed, they were known as the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. The miniseries, of course, made it sound like the love story of the century. The truth may be a little less romantic. Who knows?

Even if theirs was a fairy tale of sorts, I think the romance of Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles trumps it. She isn't the most popular partner of a British Royal, to say the least, but I think history eventually will recognize it as one of history's great love stories.

I mean, c'mon! The Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall (their official titles), well, theirs is an unreal story, highly unlikely to be believed if you were writing a script for such a tale. Would anyone believe that a prince, steeped in tradition and heavy with certain expectations that go along with his position, would marry a stunningly beautiful, sweet, besotted young woman while he was still in love with an older, much more plain former girlfriend whom the Royal Family disapproved of as a marriage partner many years before? They loved each other for over three decades before they could finally overcome scorn from a royal family, rejection from the public and taunting from the media to really, officially, legally be together as the couple they always wanted to be. It really is an amazing scenario.

Jay Leno and other comedians regularly make jokes about Camilla, referring to her rather square, rather long face as horsey. Many comedians over the years have similarly made fun of Charles' big ears. Personally, I think Charles is getting better looking as he gets older. And I think Camilla's looks would be just fine if it weren't for the comparison to Diana.

We only know their public sides, other than the famous overheard phone conversation years ago when Charles supposedly told Camilla he wished he were her tampon. How many commoners abroad, here and worldwide have, with love and lust, said something in a similar vein to their lovers? Fortunately for the rest of us, only our intended recipient hears our most intimate conversations, not the whole world. So these people, these royals, these very public figures are human too. And they did what countless couples have done when their parents didn't approve of their union: they eventually found a way to be together anyway. Good for them!

What Is Congress Doing in Baseball!?

It is absolutely beyond me how this country evolved to the point where Roger Clemens is in danger of doing prison time after being investigated by a House committee for taking steroids at some point in his career. The Committee on Energy and Commerce, no less. What the heck is Congress doing in baseball, anyway?

Is this an "energy" issue because it takes energy to be a professional athlete? Is it a "commerce" issue because teams travel from state to state? Is it a consumer protection issue because we could be influenced by these high-profile athletes' behavior? Come on!

Let's see.... It is hardly a Homeland Security issue, which I'd think would be more appropriate for a "Commerce Committee" to concern itself with. Our country is just as safe from terrorists whether Clemens got shot up with steroids or not. If it's a criminal matter involving drugs -- are anabolic steroids and human growth hormones illegal, by the way? -- why isn't one of our numerous law enforcement agencies taking charge? FBI? ATF? NYPD?

Aren't there plenty of energy and commerce issues to keep that committee busy? Important things that affect our global economy, our health, our well-being and our future? Apparently not.

Instead, Congress asked the Justice Dept. to look into whether Clemens lied to a House committee, which was investigating something I believe it had no business poking into in the first place. Clemens could spend up to five years in prison, not for taking drugs, but for lying to a body whose business it isn't what he did in baseball.

For that matter, why is that same committee investigating pro wrestlers in World Wrestling Entertainment and other sports? When and how did Congress get involved in policing pro sports?

Am I just naive?

My Libertarian nature blanches at the thought of government getting its snout too deep into matters best left to the free market to resolve. Yes, I actually voted for perpetual Libertarian presidential candidate Harry Browne one year when my frustration level took hold of me like a crab's pincer in the voting booth. I didn't intend to but at the last second I just couldn't bring myself to vote for either major candidate. I can't even remember which election that was, but it could have been any one of several.

I hate the social interference of the holier-than-thou Republicans and the economic interference of the let's-steal-from-the-middle-class Democrats. I hate how the aftermath of 9-11 has eroded so many of our freedoms. Our freedom to keep our shoes on while going through Security. Our freedom to carry more than a sample size of hair spray in our carry-on bag. Our freedom to bring a never-popped-open Diet Pepsi Vanilla, which they don't sell at any airport I've seen, on the plane side of the terminal. (Can you tell I fly a lot?) Our freedom to walk along the street without a driver's license or passport. Our freedom to talk on the phone to anybody anywhere around the world without Big Brother possibly listening in.

I believe that many of those so-called safeguards are more for political show than to really keep us safe. If they were really serious, there wouldn't be the holes the size of Montana in our security systems. So we go through all of the gyrations and pretend that we're being kept safe, but I think we've just plain been lucky. Thank God.

But I digress.

I ask it again.... What is Congress doing in baseball? What good for our country is it when they call for taxpayer money to pay for their own and some Dept. of Justice investigation into what goes on in baseball? What's next? A committee inquest into prescription drug use in music? Or show business? Those are also industries with a lot of highly paid heroes for kids to worship. Watch out, American citizens. There are a lot of House committees that can probe into pretty much whatever they want and subpoena pretty much anybody. Who knows, you may be next.

Ordinary People

A TV spot for Barack Obama that's running here, the only one that I've seen (over and over and over) has him starting out with these words: "Ordinary People...."

He goes on to say that (now I'm paraphrasing) as "ordinary people" in America struggle to meet their obligations and live paycheck to paycheck, why should we give tax benefits to companies that outsource jobs overseas, that we should give those breaks to companies that employ people here at home.

These political ads -- for ALL the candidates -- drive me crazy. They've all got the candidates talking. Talking. Talking. Talking. Yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada. We know they talk, for God's sake. That's all we get, is what's become another overused word in political campaigns, "rhetoric."

The reason I can't remember what Obama says after "ordinary people" is that I get stuck on the idea of "ordinary." Do people really think of themselves as ordinary? I don't think anybody is ordinary, frankly. They may look ordinary at first glance. But in nearly every case, when you talk to someone and dig under the veneer, you find out that they've done, endured, conquered and overcome a whole lotta stuff that would have felled "ordinary" people. I say that about everybody from CEOs to janitors, doctors to Wal-Mart workers.

We're all extraordinary, Mr. Obama and all other politicians that use that word. Please consider banishing that word from your campaign.

Talk about Baggage....

I started out roaming around various news sites and ended up clicking away into several never neverland topics. Two caught my eye, both about, in one form or another, baggage.

Southwest Airlines has changed its baggage policy and now will only check two bags at no cost, not three. Fine. Yawn.

But this "baggage" story really astonished me. Mississippi Representative W. T. Mayhall Jr. this past Friday introduced a bill in the Mississippi legislature, House Bill No. 282, that would actually make it a crime for restaurants to serve food to obese people. So anyone with a BMI (body mass index) of over 30 could not be served in a restaurant. The restaurants would have to keep records of those numbers to be in compliance. If they violate the proposed law, they could lose their business licenses. Incredible!

According to healthcare blogger Sandy Szwarc, who actually spoke to Mayfield, the man is serious about this bill. He doesn't think it stands a chance of passing (thank God) but he wants to "call attention to the serious problem of obesity and what it is costing the Medicare system," says the blogger. You can read what else he says as well as the entire (mercifully brief) bill on her blog.


I'm sure this guy, Mr. Mayhall, thinks he is well-meaning. But good Lord, who the hell is he to come up with an offensive, obnoxious, none-of-his-fucking-business rule as to who restaurants can and can't serve, especially tied to weight?! And he wants to make the restaurants keep records on their customers' BMIs? The guy, Mayhell, should be ruled incompetent! I would like to drop his ass in a chair in a Weight Watchers meeting, or L.A. Fitness or Jenny Craig so he can hear the stories of people who truly struggle with weight issues. It's not just some little will-power problem that people can control. Mayfuck's idea of punishing overweight people by banning them from public places and making it illegal for restaurants to serve them is beyond offensive, beyond violating civil rights and beyond nuts! Not that I have an opinion.

City Slicker Meets Coyote

I am the ultimate city slicker. I couldn't survive in the wild, any wild, unless it's the wilds of Manhattan, for more than a few days. I couldn't tell you what a tamarask tree is. I don't know what trapping bait is (don't ask). And I've never felt particularly kindly toward coyotes.

Until now.

Through a Yahoo! writing group I'm a member of, I learned of a blog called "The Daily Coyote," kept by 30-year-old photographer and author Shreve Stockton. I'm about as likely to read about a coyote as I am to fly to Alaska tonight. But I went to the blog out of curiosity and not only ended up reading the entire thing, every post, but also falling in love with the coyote, Charlie!

You must see this blog. No wonder, according to someone in the writing group, Shreve got a book contract to turn her photos and memoir writings into a book. So take a look at the blog, even if you're a city slicker like me.

And in the Beginning....

In my reminiscence of my friends among the ENR Newsmakers (the item below, written last night while watching an NFL playoff game), I can't believe my omission. Here's the story.

Some 12-1/2 years ago, I "discovered" the Internet. Of course, it had been around for many, many years, but it wasn't very user-friendly and the World Wide Web wasn't yet very mainstream. I'd never heard of it.

I was the person that my editors gave stuff to that they didn't know what to do with. Being tasked with writing a review of the book Sex and Buildings comes to mind. So when a press release came in saying that Winter Park Construction had a "home page," ENR's editor-in-chief at the time, Howard Stussman, gave it to me. I recruited fellow ENR editor Bill Angelo to help me with the story, and we wrote a pretty lame story about this incredibly newsworthy event, namely that a construction company had a home page. They didn't call them Web sites yet, and most of the sites really did consist of just a page or so. They were basically brochures online, if that, many created by renegade IT people who wanted to play on this new playground.

A few days after the story ran, I got a phone call from Jon Antevy, who, with his partner at the time Dave Gruber, had a small company -- shortly thereafter named e-Builder -- that helped construction companies use the Web in a way that would help their businesses do business and make money. He said he'd seen my article and he asked, "Do you know much about the Internet?" Nooooooooo. That was pretty obvious from the article, I could see later when I learned a few things. So he started telling me about it.

I had been multitasking when he called, basically waiting for him to get through what I thought would be his "I shoulda been in the article too" that we often get after we write stories. But I heard something amazing, about a world I had no idea existed. I stopped doing anything else and listened. I'll never forget this moment: I got it! I saw the window open and I saw the world beyond that he was describing. I was hooked!

Jon didn't ask for anything. He just said he'd like to come up and explain more about the Internet to us ENR editors. I immediately said yes, which seemed to stun him. I think he was prepared to sell me on the idea. When he let me know the date he and Dave could come up, then I had to sell my fellow editors on the merits of taking half an hour out of their day to learn something about this strange computer thing.

The day came and Jon and Dave set up their laptop in one of our smaller conference rooms. Our editors weren't much interested and they kind of drifted away one by one. But I was enthralled. I ended up taking their picture and writing up a little article on what they were up to and the concept of what the Internet was capable of. "It's a tool, not a toy," was Jon's mantra.

I was the first person to cover the Internet and the Web for construction. I was the first of ENR's editor to get on the Web. I got special permission to get a modem -- unbelievably slow dial-up -- but there was only one phone plug so I could use either my phone or my modem, so I had to switch back and forth. I spent dozens of nights, sometimes til midnight or later, surfing the Web and learning the technical aspects of computers and the Web. I'd run up against a wall, run into my boss' office across the hall, call Jon, get instructions, put the phone down, run back to my computer, do what he said, run back to the phone and tell Jon what I was seeing and get the next instruction, etc. Jon was so patient with me, because I was not a techie and this was all new to me.

I covered the Internet, online forums, Partering on the Web, etc., and finally -- I mean many months later -- all of the other editors got modems and the Web hit warp speed and the rest is history.

At the end of that year, I nominated Jon and his business partner from FMI, Hoyt Lowder, to be Newsmakers "for bringing Partnering to the Web." They passed the vote, and they were our first Web-related Newsmakers.

e-Builder is pretty much the only independent Web service provider in the construction industry among the dozens that sprouted up over the next few years that has survived, let alone thrived. The others died, were absorbed or sold, or just faded away. A few exist today but they are parts of bigger companies. Jon and his current partner, his brother Ron Antevy, didn't succumb to the temptation, as most of their competitors did, to seek millions in venture capital money and spend like drunken sailors. It wasn't easy to resist when most of their highly visible competitors were receiving all the publicity in major business magazines and were seemingly going to be flying high forever. How some of those tanked would make its own book. But Jon., Dave and Ron kept to the original plan of their business, and today e-Builder is still around, still independent, still making money, and Jon and Ron are still the majority owners of their business. And, in 1999, ENR named Jon as one of the 125 Top Innovators of the past 125 years (and I had nothing to do with that selection).

Jon and I have been in close contact all those years. Hoyt and Ron, too, though I've lost track of Dave. I definitely consider Jon a very good friend. I trust him more than 99.9% of people I know. We've seen a lot of growth and many changes in each other. I hardly even remember when he was a 23-year-old entrepreneur who flew all over the country pitching e-Builder but couldn't even rent a car by himself because he wasn't 24. But I remember the principled, dedicated, hard-working person he was then...because he still is.

Newsmakers and Friends

The magazine I used to work for (and still freelance for), Engineering News-Record (ENR), long considered the bible of the construction industry, has just released their annual list of The Top 25 Newsmakers. I am thrilled to report that one of them is "mine," one that I wrote the story on that made him eligible to be nominated for the honor.

Bob Nilsson is being cited for his admirable work with severely injured vets at Walter Reed Army Medical Center and Bethesda Naval Hospital. He (and Jim Todd, head of The Peterson Companies, a developer -- Bob always demands that the credit be shared) came up with the idea of a scholarship for deserving injured vets, most of them amputees, which would pay their expenses beyond what the government pays them while they finish or expand their education.

Bob and Jim have been raising money from their fellow Urban Land Institute Foundation governors, from Turner Construction, where Bob serves as a senior advisor, and from anyone they can corner who has $25 to spare. They have talked the ULI Foundation into letting them use it as a platform for the scholarship, so it's called the ULI Second Chance Scholarship. They have two recipients, both of whom, not coincidentally, plan to go into construction or real estate when they finish their studies. And they have more in the pipeline. But beyond that, Bob spends several days a week out at either Walter Reed or Bethesda basically helping the injured vets adjust to their new life, helping their families through the overwhelming and confusing bureaucracy, and pumping them up in general. There's nothing that gets him more excited than to get a call or a note from a vet a few months after his or her release from Walter Reed saying how well they're doing out in the world. Some of them are doing absolutely awesome things!

I've known Bob for somewhere around 17 or 18 years. I met him when he was president of Turner International. I liked him immediately. He was always the one with the brightest eyes and the sharpest mind in the room. He looked waaaaay ahead, was always a visionary. And he was a nice guy who gave a rip about people. He still is, obviously.

Bob helped me immeasureably when I went to Kuwait in the early 90s to report on the rebuilding after the first Gulf War. (Who knew then that it would be the first and not the only?!) He hooked me up with his guys over there, and they and the other contractors my various construction pals linked me up with absolutely made my trip possible, fruitful and a whole lotta fun! And Bob and I have kept in touch all these years ever since. He's been keeping me up to speed on his activities with the amputees for several years and I'm delighted and gratified that he's getting some of the recognition he deserves.

I absolutely consider Bob a friend. In fact, I consider all of the Newsmakers I've considered "mine" over the years to be friends, as well as "my" two winners of ENR's big annual award, the Award of Excellence. As a journalist, it's good to have objectivity, but, especially in the trade-magazine world, we go back to the same people, the top dogs in the industry, over and over and you kinda can't help but get to be friends with them when you've known them and talked to them frequently over 10, 15 or more years.

"My" first winner of ENR's top award was Terry Farley -- he prefers going by the name "Chip" -- who was president of Bechtel Construction, then a unit of Bechtel Corp., when they were charged with doing whatever it took to get the fires put out in Kuwait after the first Gulf War. Terry -- I still have a hard time calling him Chip -- calls me when he's in the neighborhood and he frequently sends me jokes via e-mail, some better than others. At the time, ENR's top award was called "Man of the Year" award, which was a very strong name that everybody in the industry knew.

When my second top award winner was named two years later, it was a woman, Ginger Evans. First woman to snag that award. She was honored for being responsible for getting the Denver International Airport (DIA) built. Getting the environmental and other approvals to even build it was the hardest part and she accomplished that. She also was the project manager for the city for the whole huge project. (We won't talk about how controversial the baggage system was at DIA and how long it delayed the airport's opening.) By the time she won the honor, it had been mandated from above at McGraw-Hill that we change the name from Man of the Year to something less sexist. So it became the namby-pamby "Award of Excellence." Well, what could they do? But Ginger wanted equal status with the Men of the Year, so we called her the "Woman of the Year" and the "Award of Excellence" winner. (That was a challenge for our art director.)

Ginger and I got to be friends after I followed her around for several days at the airport and we are to this day. I watched her three daughters grow up! I consider her one of my best industry friends. Post-DIA she went to CH2M Hill, Carter & Burgess and, as of this month, Parsons Corp., where she's a senior VP.

My two other Newsmaker-friends are both now-retired military guys, Generals, in fact: Ralph Locurcio and Pat Burns. I met Ralph in Kuwait -- he was in charge of the reconstruction for the Army Corps of Engineers. He was the most dynamic, personable and common-sense-oriented leaders I'd ever met. And he was beyond creative in his approach to getting things done. (Ask him how he got his guys into Kuwait in the first place!). He's now a professor at Florida Institute of Technology, and, true to form, he has brought innovation, this time in the form of a construction management degree program. I see Ralph mostly at ENR and SAME (Society of Military Engineers) events these days, and we always give each other great big hugs. Get a drink or two in him and get him talking about driving his sports car (Porsche, was it?) across the nation, and you'll be rolling on the floor.

Pat Burns was my most recent Newsmaker before Bob. Pat -- General Burns at the time -- was the chief engineer of the Air Force's largest command, Air Combat Command (ACC). He led a major-league turnaround of construction times, budgets and methods for ACC, some of which extended to the Corps and NAVFAC. When I wrote about him, everybody talked about how brilliant he was, and how competitive, both of which, combined with his high perceptivity and level of caring about people, made him good at what he did. Pat's passion for music -- he was lead guitar in the ACC band -- got me back into music too. I now have an 88-key electronic keyboard (which I don't play nearly often enough) and an iPod with nearly 2,000 songs on it. Pat is now a VP with Mortenson Construction and a frequently requested speaker all around the nation. Some egotistical retired military officers insist, even tacitly, that you still call them "General," but Pat, from the first moment he retired a couple of years ago, said, "Call me Pat."

My Newsmaker-friends are wonderful human beings. If I forgot anybody, I apologize. I'm writing this as I watch the Green Bay Packers whup the Seattle Seahawks in the NFL playoff games -- YAY! Love to see Brett Favre win! All of these guys -- Ginger's one of the guys too -- are inspirations to me, true mentors, and I feel privileged to call them friends.

Believing Someone Who Believes Roger Clemens

Aa a recent former New Yorker, over the years I heard a lot about Roger Clemens when he was a Yankee...and beyond, when he played for Houston. He was an awesome pitcher. He was a hero. Now he's being bashed by people left and right after his former trainer claimed he injected Clemens with steroids on several occasions. Who do you believe and how do you know how to judge?

Well, I believe Clemens.

I am not in a position to know anything about what happened or what didn't. But someone I know and respect is an award-winning, longtime sports writer who has covered Clemens for some years, and he has taken a strong stand for the (hopefully) future Hall of Fame pitcher. His name is Mike Geffner. Mike is a passionate do-gooder in the BEST sense of the word; he has created several writers groups online solely for the purpose of giving writers a place to go for help, to help other writers and to learn about writing. If you write anything, or aspire to, I urge you to subscribe to Mike's Writing Newsletter (free!), join Mike's Writing Workshop (a Yahoo group), and become a "friend" of Mike's on his MySpace page.

Mike posted a blog item today on his MySpace page called "Believing in Roger Clemens." You can see it on his MySpace page and on recordonline.com. He says he believes Clemens because he knows him, knows who he is as a person, and he believes in him. That's good enough for me.

People have no idea what journalists get to learn about people. They, well, we -- I'm one too, which is how I know -- are attuned to whether someone is being straight with us or not. Our job is to ferret out the exaggerations, distortions and outright lies and deliver the truth to our readers, and we get to be very good at it. We can smell a lie a mile away. Not always -- we can be gullible too. But by and large, we know who people are when we talk to them. It's a lot about patterns. When we see something 150 times, we can assume when we see it for the 151st that it's a lot like the first 150.

But really and truly, the great benefit of being a journalist is the relationships we form with the people we write about. It would absolutely astonish you to learn what people tell us. They start to trust us or they get caught up in the conversation and they forget we're journalists and they open up to us. I've had people tell me the most private things about their businesses, their marriages, their extracurricular activities, their bodies, their partners and their deep-down frustrations and desires. I know when they lost their virginity and to whom (the best was at a Black Sabbath concert), I know the exact moment their marriages took a turn for the worse, I know the political landscape and that they're angling for the CEO position (or leaving the company) before they've told anyone else. I know the real reasons for their actions despite what they've told their colleagues, clients, spouses or their p.r. people. So I totally believed Bob Woodward when he said that William Casey, the former head of the CIA, revealed deep secrets to Woodward on Casey's deathbed for Woodward's book Veil: The Secret Wars of the CIA, 1981-1987. Casey's wife said it never happened, that Casey would never do that. Well, wives, p.r. agents and best friends never know what people say to us one-on-one. There is no doubt in my mind that Casey had that kind of conversation with Woodward, a journalist he trusted. Hey, journalists will go to jail to protect their sources. You're better off telling things to a journalist than to your best friend.

So when Geffner says he believes Clemens, I believe him. And, therefore, I believe Clemens.