Politicians, Washington D.C. and the beginning of cynicism

If someone were to rifle through my stuff at the end of my life, or some other point in my life, you'd discover a picture of me, and then Senator, and future Vice President, Joseph R. Biden.

Did I meet Joe?  Yes.  Are we buds?  Hardly.  But that represents a major turning point in my life.  Namely, when I looked behind the curtain and learned there was as much bullshit in politics as there is in High School.

The first time I "met" Joe Biden was outside St. Joseph's on the Brandywine Church. I was about 12 years old.  My father made me be an alter boy for my entire childhood, and through high school.   After Mass, I came from the back of the church after getting out of my alter boy's robes and my father was talking to some gray-haired balding guy surrounded by church people.  My main thought was how quickly we could leave.

My Dad had a pose for uncomfortable social situations.  He sort of hunched his shoulders and rubbed his hands together.  This sounds sinister, but it looks like shyness, not plotting to kill James Bond. He had this pose at the time.

Upon approaching my father, he introduced me to Senator Biden.  They went to high school together and knew each other.  he Senator put his arm around me.  I've never been touched by a priest or anything, but this was rather uncomfortable for me.  At that point I noticed Joe's daughter, who looked like a prettier mirror image reflection of my discomfort, possibly MORE embarrassed because I can only assume she had to deal with this rather often.   After a few minutes of talking about Archmere (the prep school our two very different families both attended- fathers and sons/daughter) Joe moved on to people who would ACTUALLY vote for him.  (Dad is a lifelong Republican. Barry Goldwater type.  Regan was too liberal for him.)

Through my time in High School, my father played golf with the Senator on random occasions maybe two or three times.  Maybe only once, who knows.  HE tells a boring story where he claims to have stumped the Senator.  I've never seen Biden at a loss for words, so I sort of doubt this tale.

But that chance connection, which ended with my Dad, was profitable for me. (His daughter, Ashley, and I were never friends.  Different circles two years apart, which is a lifetime in high school.  Sort of doubt if she knew of my existence and the thought did not bother me.  I had plenty of other girls I wished would think about me, but probably never did.)

I studied politics and international relations in college.  I was SURE I'd change the world and be awesome.  So my father, perhaps under the same delusion as me, called a friend who worked for Biden, I wrote an application letter, and next thing you know, Mr. Anderson went to Washington to intern for the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.

I did some interesting work researching topics and putting together binders for committee hearings.  The most interesting was preparing the briefing binder for the confirmation hearings of Ambassador Richard Hollbrooke as ambassador to the U.N. Bored yet?

What did I really learn in DC?  Senator Strom Thurman was a creepy old man who got lost in the Dirksen Senate office building.  (or was it Rayburn? I forget.)  He had clandestinely groped a female intern's breast while taking a picture with her.  You know, arm around her, hand on sideboob, "accidental".  Ted Kennedy's office smelled like whiskey.  In 1999. I think he was allegedly sober at that point.  He also yelled a lot.

Everything was a dog and pony show.

Senators and Congressmen made speeches to empty halls for CSPAN.  Well meaning citizens with good causes who wore cheap suits were herded towards interns and staff assistants who threw out notes after their "meetings".  Defense contractors, well funded organizations met with senior staffers over lunch at expensive restaurants.  Interns were used to prepare detailed and personalized responses.  Their meeting notes often were used to strat research projects.  And these were Democrats, progressives. Republicans dismissed the poor suit meetings out of hand.

But there were two other Joe Biden interactions I wanted to share.  First, my exit meeting, where I got that photo-op.  I explained I was on my way to Germany a week later to study abroad for a year.  I was a double major in German and had extensively studied the fall of the Soviet Block.  However, Joe decided he need to regale me with a lecture of Eastern Germany.  He was half right, half wrong.  But it was clear his mindframe seemed to be: talk first, think second.  So the media has sort of nailed that about him...

The next instance was the summer picnic at his house in Delaware.  He opened his home and had a BBQ for the whole staff.  He talked to everyone.  He and I talked cars.  He had an old Corvette, I think a 1967.  My Dad had a 1970 Porsche 911T.  In talking about his car, his family and the openness he had with his staff, I realized: this guy believes in it.  He gave a shit.  Sure he was arrogant, too talkative, and probably out of touch but he BELIEVED it.

Joe was good friends with Jesse Helms and Strom Thurman.  He bought into DC.  From one summer there I didn't.  As I write this 4 years into JAG Corps life, I still don't and I doubt I will. Sailors (and Soldiers, Airmen and Marines) love their country.  Politicians love themselves, no matter how much they believe they're doing the right thing. 

My Dad is almost 70, and I've done some crazy ass shit in my life.

What do the two things in the title have to do with one another?  Seemingly nothing but a thought began festering in the recesses of my mind a few weeks back when I was yet a again hunting pugs, and nearly trampled to death by a herd of cattle.  I started wondering if my own son would ever want to hear about the weird shit I've done in my time.  How crazy my life in Berlin was, the near disastrous predicaments I managed to survive, or any of the funny little stories that kids never hear about my their parents.

An uncle’s illness reminded me yet again of the vulnerability of my own father.  That coming up to 70 years old, his time may be limited with me.  While that is extremely distressing since in the past decade my Dad and I have crossed into that great parental stage of being friends with your offspring, we seem to have limited time left, and increasing obligations on my part.

Which get me to thinking: one day Charlie may wonder: Dad was 30 when I was born.  His whole teens and twenties are a mystery.   Who was Matt before he was "Dad"?  I am hoping that in the coming years, I can explore more of that part of my own father.

But what of Charlie?

Well, as you can plainly read, running blogs are boring.  Who gives a flying fuck if I had to shit bad for the last mile of a run? My time sucked in the San Antonio Marathon, so who cares? 

But I decided I would keep this blog for a while.  I will fill it with funny, weird, and wacky recollections from my short, but honestly amazingly fun time on this planet.  Some of this may have to wait until Charlie is a mature adult who has settled himself in life.  Some he can hear as a child.  But when I am facing the pearly gates at hopefully a very ripe old age, I don't want Charlie to ask: who WAS my father?  I want my son to know where he came from, dumb ass mistakes, adventurous risks, drunken escapades and errors in judgment.  Hell there are a few meals I may need to discuss since I can still recall that amazing taste or smell YEARS later.

If you are reading this, years from now Charlie, don't fret about one thing I know you don't want to know.  There will be no recollection of torrid love affairs, or sexual escapades.  No son wants to know about that side of his father. Gross.  Needless to say, your mother was the best of all, and the best decision I ever made.

So I will start this with a very brief yarn.  On my second trip hunting, ever, I lined up my shot on a herd of pigs at the bottom of a hill.  At the top of said hill was a herd of cattle. The ranch owner let us hunt the ranch to reduce the feral hog population.  She obviously did not want us to shoot the cattle.  I lined up my shot, fired my rifle, and hit a pig.  Unfortunately, it still lived and I need to fire again for a kill shot.  Once done, me and my hunting partner and went to collect the pig and cut it up for tasty lean pork.   It ended up on the other side of a barbed wire fence.  Walking across the field to collect it, I suddenly heard what sounded like thunder.  It was not thunder.

No.  It was a herd of cattle, running at full speed down a hill, nostrils flaring, straight towards me. My hunting buddy was on the other side of the barbed wire fence, so considerably safer.  Nothing stood between me and perhaps the most redneck death one could imagine.   As luck has it, I was blessed as a fast runner, and used that talent to high-tale it to the fence, toss my rifle underneath the fence to the other side, and slide under the barbed wire without stopping (a harder feat than it may seem).  The stampede continued unabated.  So I shouted to my hunting buddy, who had a pistol, to shoot warning shots in the air.  That did stop the cows.

But they stayed just on the other side of the fence.  Watching yours truly. One even started bucking and jumping and shaking his head at me.  The random horse in the herd whinnied and shook its mane. But I lived.  And so, I escaped perhaps the lamest death that one could have.  Being trampled by future cheeseburgers.

Next time I may look back a bit further, to college or my interactions with the future Vice President.  We'll see.