Somebody got into the Department of Homeland Security with a fake Mexican ID. Brilliant.

I met Tom Ridge once, when he was still DHS head and king of pork. The president of the company I worked for at the time had been with Ridge both in the Harrisburg and at the White House. One day he did an unannounced walkthrough of the place.

I worked on the top floor then, in a darkish corner, and I turned towards the stairs when I heard the low chatter of his security detail. When he emerged from the stairwell, I was stunned by his size. He’s probably 6′4″ or taller, and has a broad, imposing frame, a huge head and a wide smile.

Ours was an informal company, and a liberal one, for the most part. When Ridge got to my desk, I was wearing flip-flops, jeans, and a hawaiian shirt. (Worth noting that Ridge was no stranger to the tropical vibe.) I stood up—which seemed to surprise him and his security team, but not enough to get me shot—offered my hand, and, in my most West Wing-inflected voice, issued a firm “Mr. Secretary—It’s a pleasure” as I shook his hand and gazed into those tiny brown eyes. He grinned, and I like to think it was because I was the only one in the building who addressed him properly. Have I mentioned my White House Aide fantasies?