Wanting more leaves much to be desired.

Byline: Bob Welch / The Register-Guard

It's long amazed me how the thirst for more - in a word, greed - topples the powerful, the headline-news folks who would seemingly have it all. And yet, in the end, who wind up with so little.

Such sediment was stirred by the recent revelation that, with his 14-year-old baby sitter, former Oregon Gov. Neil Goldschmidt had an "affair," a euphemistic term for committing third-degree rape.

Now 63, Goldschmidt went public with a confession on Thursday, knowing Willamette Week was about to break the story. Over a nine-month period, he said, he had sexual relations with the daughter of a campaign staffer while he was mayor of Portland in the 1970s.

At the time, he was 35 years old. Old enough to be the girl's father. Old enough, by law, to have been arrested for what amounts to an uptown form of child abuse. Old enough to know better.

Thus does Goldschmidt join the Bill Clintons, Martha Stewarts and Bob Greenes - and, if juries rule against them, the Kobe Bryants and Michael Jacksons - of the world: In-the-spotlight people who would seemingly "have it all," but in wanting more - in seeking that which isn't theirs in the first place - ultimately sacrifice their kingdoms.

Clinton, after his White House shenanigans with Monica Lewinsky, retained the presidency but gave up something far more valuable: respect.

Stewart, found guilty in March of obstructing justice and lying to investigators, will retain her financial empire but lose what money can't buy: freedom.

Greene, forced to resign as a longtime Chicago Tribune columnist after it was found he had had sex with a high school girl who was visiting the newspaper for a project, lost something he loved dearly: his job.

Though their deeds differ in makeup and severity, Goldschmidt and the others were apparently unsatisfied with what they had. They thought they needed more, even if it meant crossing well-etched ethical limits to get it.

The pundits are right: power corrupts, at least when unregulated by some sort of external control - it's hard to believe that those who knew of Goldschmidt's actions kept quiet - or some sort of internal conscience.

"How much is enough?" ask the greedy. "A little more than I have." Consider successful politicians such as senators Brock Adams of Washington or Bob Packwood of Oregon, both felled by a series of sexual harassment incidents. Or Richard Nixon, who had a lock on a second term as president, but gave it up, along with his legacy, because he desperately wanted more.

What are the lessons to learn? First, that what you see isn't always what you get. How easy it is to ascribe a sort of god-like quality to those in power. But whether they're politicians, athletes or oven-mitted CEOs, people are people, a lesson not easily learned in a country that idolizes those in the spotlight.

Second, it's lonely at the top. Beyond anger, I feel sorry for Goldschmidt, not so much for the guilt that he's endured - small stuff compared to the pain his victim has faced - but because he apparently had nobody who cared enough about him to intervene - to, in essence, take away his keys and not let him drive.

And he wound up in an accident that hurt someone badly.

Third, character counts. People who consistently put their own needs above the needs of others make crummy public servants. You don't slip character on like a judge's robe; it's either with you or it isn't.

Finally, the truth wins out in the end. It nipped at Goldschmidt's heels for years and, finally, cornered him like a pit bull when he learned of Willamette Week's story. He had no choice but to surrender.

I believe in grace, in forgiveness, in people rebuilding their lives. But the powerful will never find any of the three until realizing that character isn't what you say in a politically savvy speech or a carefully crafted sound bite.

It's how you act when nobody is around to watch.