Jack Sheehan explains why his name will not be found on any ballot for public office

Monday, June 5, 2006 | 7:19 a.m.

I heard an odd comment the other day from a man I've known for 25 years but have never known well.

"When are you going to run for office?" he asked.

"Not in this lifetime," was my quick reply.

"I'm serious," he said. And I could tell he was.

I can only guess at why he made the comments. I think it was because he knows me through the world of golf, where I have established a modicum of credibility.

But if the ability to chase the dimpled spheroid around the lawn, and then write about it, qualifies one for public office, we might have the behavior-plagued golfer John Daly running for the U.S. Senate. He's won two major championships and his new book, after all, is on all the best-seller lists.

As I said, this man who blurted out his question doesn't know me well, for if he knew me even a little bit he would understand that I would make a horrible public servant.

I would be absolutely worthless in large meetings (poor attention span), ineffective speaking to groups (prone to popping an expletive every now and then, which would surely offend anybody with refined taste), and totally worthless when it came to reading and making sense of long documents or legislation written in legalese or political mumbo jumbo.

Shoot, I'd probably even accept free lap dances if someone absolutely insisted.

If I ran, I would also likely call my political opponent a horse's ass or something worse the first time he or she pointed out my obvious shortcomings and lack of qualifications for the office.

I have never taken public criticism very well, stemming from the time in grade school when a nun berated me in front of the class for having unruly hair and a runny nose. That hurt my feelings, so I told her she was ugly and smelled funny. I was sent home after catching about eight sharp swats on the back of my hand from a wooden ruler. (I've since improved my grooming, but I'll lay you 4-1 that that good sister, who should be admired for giving her life to God, is still ugly.)

But really the whole idea of my ever running for public office is a moot point. And that's because as a 15-year-old punk kid, a really long time ago, I got busted for indecent exposure. Now before you call my editor and demand that I be fired, let me explain.

Back in the mid-1960s, about the same time that "American Graffiti" director George Lucas was driving around his uneventful Central California town with his friends looking for excitement and engaging in distinctly juvenile behavior, I was doing the same with my buddies up in Spokane.

One of the activities that we employed on weekends to interrupt the gloomy monotony was "mooning." The practice consisted of hanging the bare posterior out of a car window to elicit shock, surprise or laughter from passing vehicles.

We didn't think it was any big deal, just a stupid teenage prank, that is until the night a plainclothes policeman showed up at our front door asking to speak with my mother.

I'm sure Mom thought he was an encyclopedia salesman or something of that ilk until he blurted out that his name was Detective Hogan and that he was here to arrest her only son, because the boy was a pervert.

I was standing nearby and would have been deeply offended by the comment, but I remember not knowing what a pervert was, even though I was one. But Lillian Sheehan obviously grasped the term because she quickly defended me.

"What are you talking about, Officer?" she said. "My son is a good boy and an honor student."

"He revealed his private parts on North Division Street last night," the cop said. "Someone took the car's license number and I just spoke with the driver, and he gave me your son's name as the offender. We've got a sworn complaint, ma'am. We're taking him in."

It so happened that my father was at the corner store, buying an after-dinner cigar, when this unwelcome intrusion occurred. But by the time he arrived home, and before he could clip the blunt end and fire it up, my mother was in hysterics, and the officer had informed me that I could count on spending the summer in juvenile detention.

The only other pertinent detail I'll share is that before they locked the cell door in what turned out to be a 24-hour incarceration, they confiscated my belt and the rosary my mother had placed in my pocket and told me to use frequently to pray for forgiveness. I asked the booking clerk why they needed to take them.

"So you won't hang yourself," the man said.

Now even though I was promised upon my release that my criminal record would be destroyed if I kept my pants on until I turned 18, I know darned well if I filed for justice of the peace, or even a state Assembly position, my official record of perversion would somehow surface and "expose" me once again.