Saturday, November 24, 2007
I will never be the same from my time on the road.
That’s a basic premise of everything I write. Transition, vanishing points, and the prison of my escape still stand as the most meaningful of all the love-hate relationships I’ve embraced in my life. Trucking was my lover, and it was so even long before I had my first date that lasted more than a heartbeat. From the moment I could keep my dad company on our treks across the west, I was addicted to perpetual motion. I knew what I wanted to be even though I was smart enough not to.
If there is one theme that still stands as the song of my life, it would be that reality. For years after my accident, I kept hoping for a miracle-one that would land me within range of a DOT medical card so I could buy the Kenworth of my dreams and pursue a non-profit business model-which is about as good as it gets these days in the land of $4.00 a gallon giddy up go juice. I’d spec a KW W-900 the one with custom paint, a studio sleeper, plenty of chicken lights and a fold out desk. I’d once again start collecting stories from the road as I did for 17 years prior to the big crash. I’d be happy and miserable, free and trapped, in full motion and stationary just as I always was.
But so far that miracle of modern medicine hasn’t been on God’s to do list.
Which has translated, and not so neatly, into my very personal, five year long lesson in acceptance. I’ve stuck out the pain of having to learn to put down roots, and what it takes to try to sustain relationships, an Achilles heel that prior to this chapter was best defined as just passing through and best kept that way. That means sticking through relationships with family, with friends, and with myself and the unpleasantness that always results from outstaying your welcome.
Back in the good old days of trucking, relationships worked best for me in micro-bursts of hello, catch up over dinner and say goodbye while the getting was good. No one had time to get sick of me, there wasn’t enough face time to spawn actual conflict and it was all about the romance of having lots of smiling “It’s so good to see you again” folks in one’s life. The downside of human interaction, actually making your way through the in’s and out’s of being present with others over the very long haul, wasn’t part of the equation.
I am really handicapped at relationships. It doesn’t matter what kind of relationship it is-friendship, relative, or significant other. I have a hard time getting out of my head. I’m too busy talking with myself to actually speak out loud. I listen with the detached ear of one who learned to monitor the C B radio listening for key words such as brake check ahead, smokey in the median, or meat wagon heading west. Talking to others and accomplishing intimacy, was out of range in most cases. Escape or avoidance works so much easier. I don’t like facing the crashing of my idealistic views of how I thought one person should always talk to the other, what is fair in engaging our passions, and doing all that golden rule stuff in equal measures. The lack of guarantees in relationship building hardly reassured me. Communicating, the painful act of barring your soul and
That’s a basic premise of everything I write. Transition, vanishing points, and the prison of my escape still stand as the most meaningful of all the love-hate relationships I’ve embraced in my life. Trucking was my lover, and it was so even long before I had my first date that lasted more than a heartbeat. From the moment I could keep my dad company on our treks across the west, I was addicted to perpetual motion. I knew what I wanted to be even though I was smart enough not to.
If there is one theme that still stands as the song of my life, it would be that reality. For years after my accident, I kept hoping for a miracle-one that would land me within range of a DOT medical card so I could buy the Kenworth of my dreams and pursue a non-profit business model-which is about as good as it gets these days in the land of $4.00 a gallon giddy up go juice. I’d spec a KW W-900 the one with custom paint, a studio sleeper, plenty of chicken lights and a fold out desk. I’d once again start collecting stories from the road as I did for 17 years prior to the big crash. I’d be happy and miserable, free and trapped, in full motion and stationary just as I always was.
But so far that miracle of modern medicine hasn’t been on God’s to do list.
Which has translated, and not so neatly, into my very personal, five year long lesson in acceptance. I’ve stuck out the pain of having to learn to put down roots, and what it takes to try to sustain relationships, an Achilles heel that prior to this chapter was best defined as just passing through and best kept that way. That means sticking through relationships with family, with friends, and with myself and the unpleasantness that always results from outstaying your welcome.
Back in the good old days of trucking, relationships worked best for me in micro-bursts of hello, catch up over dinner and say goodbye while the getting was good. No one had time to get sick of me, there wasn’t enough face time to spawn actual conflict and it was all about the romance of having lots of smiling “It’s so good to see you again” folks in one’s life. The downside of human interaction, actually making your way through the in’s and out’s of being present with others over the very long haul, wasn’t part of the equation.
I am really handicapped at relationships. It doesn’t matter what kind of relationship it is-friendship, relative, or significant other. I have a hard time getting out of my head. I’m too busy talking with myself to actually speak out loud. I listen with the detached ear of one who learned to monitor the C B radio listening for key words such as brake check ahead, smokey in the median, or meat wagon heading west. Talking to others and accomplishing intimacy, was out of range in most cases. Escape or avoidance works so much easier. I don’t like facing the crashing of my idealistic views of how I thought one person should always talk to the other, what is fair in engaging our passions, and doing all that golden rule stuff in equal measures. The lack of guarantees in relationship building hardly reassured me. Communicating, the painful act of barring your soul and
risk taking is so not my forte. Go ahead be stunned all those who visualize all the deep conversations us writers must spawn. Not so much us transient types.
To be honest, I prefer my communication to be of the non-verbal variety. I can be very social but I fly best in quiet solitude. We open skied writer types don’t really live to talk about our feelings. We write them down, scratch them out, edit and polish each word until its just right and blows big sky sunshine. Rare is the talker who speaks a flawless first draft, with shiny upsided vocabulary and perfect pitch delivery. I am not that kind. I speak in flawless shitty first draft and this is a trait I pay for more often than not.
When many writers aren’t writing, we slam book after book in grateful isolation like its cocaine. Many of us drink because of what we write. Or we take drugs. Or hang out in sex clubs. Or at Republican fund raisers. Or both. We do anything and everything we can to soothe the embarrassment and vulnerability of literacy.
In my case I drove and drove and I could never get enough horizon behind me to make up for the territory I couldn’t put to rest. That approach worked quite well for me until my accident and then I was sentenced to operation sit your butt still, and stationary living of the not so rich and not famous enough became my newest self induced reduced sentence.
With the re-instatement of my mobility last May, I saw light at the end of the tunnel. I could breathe again after several years of darkness. I could commute to work, not be reliant or trapped on the whims of others and I could drive my own four-wheeler.
My commute is, or for most folks would be, the stuff of nightmares. For me it is my salvation. Coming in at roughly 120 miles round trip on the goat trail route and over 150 on the mostly divided highway route, I spend quite a bit of time reenacting and reliving white line fever. I’d die without that illness.
To this day, my closest and easiest relationships with fellow mankind remain among drivers. We share this sort of universal understanding about the proper measure of space and boundaries-what spatial requirement a human on the run really needs to create in order to prosper in one’s head. We understand that the measures of motion are both a god send and a curse. Leading always toward enlightenment, finding yourself, and losing your way, these traits are understood while also both unspoken and comforting.
On my commute these days, several of my driver friends have figured out my schedule. It is their voices that commune with mine on that long drive home under the Selkirk Ranged stars. I am barely logged off the job when my cell phone begins to assault the stillness of night. If I don’t answer, they keep calling, until I do.
They know all about the coverage hole between Spirit Lake and Blanchard, how long it should take me to get through that land of no talk back. They will call on the other side to make sure an Elk or Moose or Buck or stray Bull wasn’t in my future. They drop into their holes and like most conversations in life, ours are always in a state of unfinished
To be honest, I prefer my communication to be of the non-verbal variety. I can be very social but I fly best in quiet solitude. We open skied writer types don’t really live to talk about our feelings. We write them down, scratch them out, edit and polish each word until its just right and blows big sky sunshine. Rare is the talker who speaks a flawless first draft, with shiny upsided vocabulary and perfect pitch delivery. I am not that kind. I speak in flawless shitty first draft and this is a trait I pay for more often than not.
When many writers aren’t writing, we slam book after book in grateful isolation like its cocaine. Many of us drink because of what we write. Or we take drugs. Or hang out in sex clubs. Or at Republican fund raisers. Or both. We do anything and everything we can to soothe the embarrassment and vulnerability of literacy.
In my case I drove and drove and I could never get enough horizon behind me to make up for the territory I couldn’t put to rest. That approach worked quite well for me until my accident and then I was sentenced to operation sit your butt still, and stationary living of the not so rich and not famous enough became my newest self induced reduced sentence.
With the re-instatement of my mobility last May, I saw light at the end of the tunnel. I could breathe again after several years of darkness. I could commute to work, not be reliant or trapped on the whims of others and I could drive my own four-wheeler.
My commute is, or for most folks would be, the stuff of nightmares. For me it is my salvation. Coming in at roughly 120 miles round trip on the goat trail route and over 150 on the mostly divided highway route, I spend quite a bit of time reenacting and reliving white line fever. I’d die without that illness.
To this day, my closest and easiest relationships with fellow mankind remain among drivers. We share this sort of universal understanding about the proper measure of space and boundaries-what spatial requirement a human on the run really needs to create in order to prosper in one’s head. We understand that the measures of motion are both a god send and a curse. Leading always toward enlightenment, finding yourself, and losing your way, these traits are understood while also both unspoken and comforting.
On my commute these days, several of my driver friends have figured out my schedule. It is their voices that commune with mine on that long drive home under the Selkirk Ranged stars. I am barely logged off the job when my cell phone begins to assault the stillness of night. If I don’t answer, they keep calling, until I do.
They know all about the coverage hole between Spirit Lake and Blanchard, how long it should take me to get through that land of no talk back. They will call on the other side to make sure an Elk or Moose or Buck or stray Bull wasn’t in my future. They drop into their holes and like most conversations in life, ours are always in a state of unfinished
business. They sing to me and tell stories and I tell them mine and time passes as if life is standing still.
I know their rhythms and the energy of voice tone. I can translate all of where we stand in a downshift second and target tonight’s mood. I translate the cuss required of a missed gear. The dog that still won’t give up an inch of his share of a cramped sleeper berth. The home stretch of dropping time zones and missing pages of log books that leave sleep always the rarest of commodities. The truckstop food that went straight through. The throughway that wasn’t even close. The after effects of grease and the tastelessness of it. The shitstorm of I-80 in Wyoming and that the Rockies can reign down on you any damn time they like and that it don’t matter that its not that time of year. I know all the ways a single day can ruin a good run.
They tell me of that too long exchanged glance at the Fargo Petro, the scale that just had to be closed-and that thank God for once it was. They tell me of someday getting off the road and getting back on the road and that one turnstile fits all. They tell me of a Montana Cowboy on the make. They tell me of mixed signals and ones they're sure they got right. They sigh when they are tired, begging me to stay on the line. They cry over heartbreak, and sing when love came quickly. They pass as straight and sometimes don’t care if they don’t. They fix their log books, and call when they can’t. They call from the break down lane and from the shippers dock delayed. Sometimes they call just to tell me that they are finally on their way although where they are really going is anyone’s guess.
Tell me the mile marker and I can see it in my head, just as my own spent mile markers catch the headlights, burn, and then turn crimson in the glow of tail lights with no one on my back door breaking open the dark. The horizons of these mountains are always my guardian, my keeper and my guard, and the truckers I know are the best soldiers of all that fortune. I wish familiarity their way. They wish new medical advances mine.
The road is lonely and comforting, hostile and familiar, dark and illuminating always all of this at the same time. So when the phone rings, and I am just getting on the road, and the moon is a no show, it is Chase, or Mikey, or Kevin or any number of others who will light the way on the moon’s behalf. The laughter will come easy, as the night falls around us. With each new lyric or lullaby, a song that I might be the first chosen to hear, only the hum of our tires accompanies those movements in their rhyme. But, in the end, it is all the accompaniment they need.
Because when the gear slammers, freight shakers and the chicken haulers sing to the road, the chorus is heavenly indeed. These are the stanza’s of the unsettled and the still got no place to go. At least no place that will keep them satiated. These are the songs of the grass is greener set. These are the tunes that I know by heart. These are the songs I still sing back to them, especially when no one I know back home is listening. These are the songs I have been singing nearly all my life.
And regardless of which state of my life that I am writing from-stationary or just passing through, these are the lyrics I have always sung best.
I know their rhythms and the energy of voice tone. I can translate all of where we stand in a downshift second and target tonight’s mood. I translate the cuss required of a missed gear. The dog that still won’t give up an inch of his share of a cramped sleeper berth. The home stretch of dropping time zones and missing pages of log books that leave sleep always the rarest of commodities. The truckstop food that went straight through. The throughway that wasn’t even close. The after effects of grease and the tastelessness of it. The shitstorm of I-80 in Wyoming and that the Rockies can reign down on you any damn time they like and that it don’t matter that its not that time of year. I know all the ways a single day can ruin a good run.
They tell me of that too long exchanged glance at the Fargo Petro, the scale that just had to be closed-and that thank God for once it was. They tell me of someday getting off the road and getting back on the road and that one turnstile fits all. They tell me of a Montana Cowboy on the make. They tell me of mixed signals and ones they're sure they got right. They sigh when they are tired, begging me to stay on the line. They cry over heartbreak, and sing when love came quickly. They pass as straight and sometimes don’t care if they don’t. They fix their log books, and call when they can’t. They call from the break down lane and from the shippers dock delayed. Sometimes they call just to tell me that they are finally on their way although where they are really going is anyone’s guess.
Tell me the mile marker and I can see it in my head, just as my own spent mile markers catch the headlights, burn, and then turn crimson in the glow of tail lights with no one on my back door breaking open the dark. The horizons of these mountains are always my guardian, my keeper and my guard, and the truckers I know are the best soldiers of all that fortune. I wish familiarity their way. They wish new medical advances mine.
The road is lonely and comforting, hostile and familiar, dark and illuminating always all of this at the same time. So when the phone rings, and I am just getting on the road, and the moon is a no show, it is Chase, or Mikey, or Kevin or any number of others who will light the way on the moon’s behalf. The laughter will come easy, as the night falls around us. With each new lyric or lullaby, a song that I might be the first chosen to hear, only the hum of our tires accompanies those movements in their rhyme. But, in the end, it is all the accompaniment they need.
Because when the gear slammers, freight shakers and the chicken haulers sing to the road, the chorus is heavenly indeed. These are the stanza’s of the unsettled and the still got no place to go. At least no place that will keep them satiated. These are the songs of the grass is greener set. These are the tunes that I know by heart. These are the songs I still sing back to them, especially when no one I know back home is listening. These are the songs I have been singing nearly all my life.
And regardless of which state of my life that I am writing from-stationary or just passing through, these are the lyrics I have always sung best.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Just in Case You Were Wondering....
The contest is still running.
Everyone-and that would be like close to thirty of you, seems to be guessing the same folks.
Modern trailer living will surprise ya. One never know who is sporting a tip out, a glamour bath and a triple wide these days.
I can't start the next contest tell ya'all get this one done. Keep on guessing.
And in other news-if you've been using the email address himtnran@povn.com - the one that has been in use now since 1995- well its no longer working. It is so full messages that they can't be downloaded out of that box as the whole contraption just freezes up. So....
For the time being how about using either of these two contacts:
highmountainranch@gmail.com (best it has a big footprint and is newer)
Second best:
highmountainranch@povn.com
Snow is in the forecast tonight...should make for an interesting week!
Timbo
Everyone-and that would be like close to thirty of you, seems to be guessing the same folks.
Modern trailer living will surprise ya. One never know who is sporting a tip out, a glamour bath and a triple wide these days.
I can't start the next contest tell ya'all get this one done. Keep on guessing.
And in other news-if you've been using the email address himtnran@povn.com - the one that has been in use now since 1995- well its no longer working. It is so full messages that they can't be downloaded out of that box as the whole contraption just freezes up. So....
For the time being how about using either of these two contacts:
highmountainranch@gmail.com (best it has a big footprint and is newer)
Second best:
highmountainranch@povn.com
Snow is in the forecast tonight...should make for an interesting week!
Timbo
Thursday, November 15, 2007
A Very Bad Day
That "other" Washington
Although I’ve been nearly everywhere in the United States, I’d never actually spent time in Washington DC-at least not inside “the beltway” until last week. Arriving in DC at 10 pm on a Saturday evening, my supervisor with the regional health district, aka-“Susan” and I were relieved when my friend Rob greeted us at the airport. He’d brought his truck to pick us up, expecting our luggage and presentation materials to be more than would easily fit into his Honda. But alas-courtesy of NW Airlines, we had no luggage. We would not have our bags until, at the earliest, sometime late on Sunday.
Yes that's right, all the supplies enabling our successful creation of an amazing presentation did not make the trip. And this was just the start of an interesting evening that only seemed to get better as time went on. After receiving our complementary “hospitality kits” and “$25 bucks off your next flight on NW Airlines” vouchers (fat chance), Rob tried to distract us from our worries and escorted us around the monuments.
I’d like to interrupt this regularly scheduled blog to relay a few thoughts on DC After Dark:
First, it’s pretty amazing. The way the light plays on the Lincoln, Korean War and Viet Nam Memorials is the stuff of a good haunting. Walking among all those still life war hero figures, then the feel of a piercing Lincoln gazing down on us felt a bit too life like. I also noticed that all the monuments seem to celebrate war, bloodshed and struggle. Our nation’s capital lingers in a prolonged history of violence.
Second, with the way everything is so trampled around the Whitehouse, it really is starting to look like Crawford, Texas. Go figure.
Back to the blog.
After our tour, Rob dropped us off at our hotel. As Rob’s taillights faded into traffic, we discovered that the Hotel had lost our reservations. All of our confirmation receipts were packed in our luggage, which was somewhere between Spokane, Minneapolis and DC. Finally the hotel found “something” and Susan landed on the second floor and I wound up on the 4th floor.
The hotels elevators weren’t working. That should have been a clue as to what we would discover next.
But first let me say, I have spent some serious time in some fairly disgusting hotels. Truckers often have to put up with the most pathetic lodging choices on the road-especially when your broke down and the company only allows $25 a night for a room. In the past, out of necessity I’ve slept in places where you actually add clothing prior to going to bed and you lay on your sweats for extra protection. Yet those places, bad as they were, had nothing on this joint. I am fairly certain our hotel had not been vacuumed in my lifetime, if ever.
Opening the door to my room was, well, eye opening. And not in a good way, either. My desk had the remains of a couple joints and burnt out matches on the table, and the bathroom appeared to have been a dedicated to some sort of major Watersports Festival. Never mind that for $140 a night, the room was smaller than most bathrooms. After calling Susan up to the room and watching her face go through a series of contortions that I do not believe is healthy prior to menopause, we agreed that the room was a definite health hazard.
Hotel management “upgraded” me to a kingsize room down the hall, still on the fourth floor, that was slightly better. It appeared that at least the sheets had been cleaned, it had fresh paint, and was a bit more spacious. Still, the room displayed an obvious lack of vacuum action. Oh yeah and the bathroom floor drained conveniently right onto the bedroom carpeting. I decided it was best not to think about the biological ramifications of that feature.
How does one embrace accommodations like this?
One adds an additional layer of clothing before bed time, grabs towels to pull back the comforter, and never ever, not even once, does one take off their socks. And this by the way was in a “good” neighborhood.
As I wrapped myself in my coat and lay on the bed, I remembered Susan telling me on the flight in how these funky, older, non-chain hotels have a certain mystique and romance about them. Indeed according to Susan she rarely stays in the more corporate places. I fell asleep embracing the power of romance and mystique while visions of Ramada danced deep in my sub conscience.
So there we were, two wide eyed folks from Spokane arriving in DC for the American Public Health Association convention. At the APHA, all the big shots in public health get together and talk, present, network, and talk some more. This year’s theme was “Politics, Policy, and Public Health.” It was a very impressive title. Impressive enough that between 14,000 and 15,000 people attended. Doing the math on that figure equals more attendees than live in this county.
Susan and I met health officials from all over the world. Over and over again we were told that our project was needed, innovative, and that prior to listening to our presentation, many in the audience said that they’d not considered the ramifications of ignoring the pressing health needs of mobile populations. We handed out 1,000’s of “Health To Go-On the Road, Off the Record” condoms. We presented information and listened as others from all over the world shared their experiences in dealing with the health issues they face among mobile populations. Everyone loved us. We are pretty sure that if there was a people’s choice award, we’d have won it.
Ah but there is always one in a crowd that just doesn’t get it, isn’t there?
The only officials who were not so excited about the project were those at the federal level, especially at the Center for Disease Control (CDC). That’s probably because HIV mobility among mobile populations is pretty much a FEDERAL ISSUE and the CDC knows nothing next to nothing about this population, a population that represents roughly 6 million people in North America.
Yet everyone, even the good folks at the CDC, know full well what is happening among truckers throughout the rest of the world, the tragic situations in Africa, India, and now China. CDC officials can site these statistics and one would think North America isn’t all that different from the rest of the world. That is unless you work at the CDC.
Yet under the Bushwhacked Administration, it seems the CDC is best equipped to pursue failed abstinence strategies-ones that while they’re wholly embraced by southern evangelical conservatives, now seem to result in half of all new HIV infections coming right out of the rural south.
It is discouraging to confront the outright apathy and lack of curiosity that many individuals in this agency display. But the CDC isn’t exactly rolling in respect this year after they were forced to announce that up to 19,000 Americans a year have been dying from MRSA. The mortality rate from this infection now mirrors HIV/AIDS. How good can we feel about the competency of a federal agency that can lose 19,000 citizens a year, all from the same infection, and they don’t clue in until the press forces the issue?
Oh yeah and remember the guy with drug resistant TB? The chap who was told by CDC officials that it was ok to fly? Across the Atlantic? And remember the cover up that occurred after all that came to light?
To be in the nation’s capital, in the center of politics as usual was eye opening far beyond the public health front. On almost every level, one has to wonder exactly what IS going on. As much talk as we’ve endured about the strength of the nation under the Bushwhacked Administration, our nation is weaker on nearly every front. The dollar is plunging. The financial markets along with all the rest of middle earth/middle American housing prospects are stunning in their fragility. Oil continues to sky rocket and after billions of dollars spent supporting the war effort, of which it is estimated costs each American family $20,000 a year to fulfill, the prospects in Iraq, Afghanistan, and soon Iran, are hardly secure. The administration has undermined the constitution on so many fronts that it will take decades of legislative activism to once again restore what our nation has always stood for.
And what of Homeland Security?
It sure didn’t seem like there was much in the way of security in place (if any) at least when it came to the Metro or any of dozens of other public spaces in DC.
God only knows what lies ahead but as I watch nearly all of the Republicans, and most of the Democrats fight for the cherished ability to keep their favorite version of DC corruption firmly in place, and as they sell us out with sound bite after sound bite, I like Ron Paul more and more. Especially in the world of Mitt Happens, Shrillary, and tip toe through the debates Thompson.
So as I walked around DC, rode the Metro, experienced the smallworld of Dupont Circle, it was a very educational journey. I was growing increasingly disillusioned with the place until later in the week, Susan and I explored one of the Smithsonian offerings. Then we tackled the Native American Museum. Here I finally saw the power of a free education. If no where else, our Nation’s Capital truly shines in these amazing collections. We caught a performance of Native American Classical music, the Natural History Museum, and walked down the mall, toward the Washington Monument. I was asked to comment for some project on what I think the 44th President should put forth as their first major international priority.
I had a hard time with that one. As if enough of our treasury isn’t already going overseas.
I couldn’t help but get this sense, that at least in the scope of world historical time, America is barely a footnote. We are but a short eye blink in comparison to other civilizations, governments, and movements. Many cultures have lasted thousands of years longer. Yet Americans always see the United States as the center of the universe. We seem to believe that our system is uniquely blessed to last forever. We seem to believe we can support the rest of the planet while neglecting our own citizens and our precious backyard.
How troubling it is then to consider what one loser frat boy from Texas can do to our national heritage, the hope of future generations of Americans, and our standing in the world. How sad that our great fall from prominence was done in just under 7 years.
This I suppose remains the greatest education I receieved. As much as little George W Bush II would like to make his mark, DC is hardly the center of the universe. His legacy will not be that of a great leader, but the leader that singlehandedly took a great nation into the history books of mediocrity. The world is moving very fast, and as APHA seemed to signify, the power of Washington DC to affect the course of the planet is quickly nearing irrelevance.
Yes that's right, all the supplies enabling our successful creation of an amazing presentation did not make the trip. And this was just the start of an interesting evening that only seemed to get better as time went on. After receiving our complementary “hospitality kits” and “$25 bucks off your next flight on NW Airlines” vouchers (fat chance), Rob tried to distract us from our worries and escorted us around the monuments.
I’d like to interrupt this regularly scheduled blog to relay a few thoughts on DC After Dark:
First, it’s pretty amazing. The way the light plays on the Lincoln, Korean War and Viet Nam Memorials is the stuff of a good haunting. Walking among all those still life war hero figures, then the feel of a piercing Lincoln gazing down on us felt a bit too life like. I also noticed that all the monuments seem to celebrate war, bloodshed and struggle. Our nation’s capital lingers in a prolonged history of violence.
Second, with the way everything is so trampled around the Whitehouse, it really is starting to look like Crawford, Texas. Go figure.
Back to the blog.
After our tour, Rob dropped us off at our hotel. As Rob’s taillights faded into traffic, we discovered that the Hotel had lost our reservations. All of our confirmation receipts were packed in our luggage, which was somewhere between Spokane, Minneapolis and DC. Finally the hotel found “something” and Susan landed on the second floor and I wound up on the 4th floor.
The hotels elevators weren’t working. That should have been a clue as to what we would discover next.
But first let me say, I have spent some serious time in some fairly disgusting hotels. Truckers often have to put up with the most pathetic lodging choices on the road-especially when your broke down and the company only allows $25 a night for a room. In the past, out of necessity I’ve slept in places where you actually add clothing prior to going to bed and you lay on your sweats for extra protection. Yet those places, bad as they were, had nothing on this joint. I am fairly certain our hotel had not been vacuumed in my lifetime, if ever.
Opening the door to my room was, well, eye opening. And not in a good way, either. My desk had the remains of a couple joints and burnt out matches on the table, and the bathroom appeared to have been a dedicated to some sort of major Watersports Festival. Never mind that for $140 a night, the room was smaller than most bathrooms. After calling Susan up to the room and watching her face go through a series of contortions that I do not believe is healthy prior to menopause, we agreed that the room was a definite health hazard.
Hotel management “upgraded” me to a kingsize room down the hall, still on the fourth floor, that was slightly better. It appeared that at least the sheets had been cleaned, it had fresh paint, and was a bit more spacious. Still, the room displayed an obvious lack of vacuum action. Oh yeah and the bathroom floor drained conveniently right onto the bedroom carpeting. I decided it was best not to think about the biological ramifications of that feature.
How does one embrace accommodations like this?
One adds an additional layer of clothing before bed time, grabs towels to pull back the comforter, and never ever, not even once, does one take off their socks. And this by the way was in a “good” neighborhood.
As I wrapped myself in my coat and lay on the bed, I remembered Susan telling me on the flight in how these funky, older, non-chain hotels have a certain mystique and romance about them. Indeed according to Susan she rarely stays in the more corporate places. I fell asleep embracing the power of romance and mystique while visions of Ramada danced deep in my sub conscience.
So there we were, two wide eyed folks from Spokane arriving in DC for the American Public Health Association convention. At the APHA, all the big shots in public health get together and talk, present, network, and talk some more. This year’s theme was “Politics, Policy, and Public Health.” It was a very impressive title. Impressive enough that between 14,000 and 15,000 people attended. Doing the math on that figure equals more attendees than live in this county.
Susan and I met health officials from all over the world. Over and over again we were told that our project was needed, innovative, and that prior to listening to our presentation, many in the audience said that they’d not considered the ramifications of ignoring the pressing health needs of mobile populations. We handed out 1,000’s of “Health To Go-On the Road, Off the Record” condoms. We presented information and listened as others from all over the world shared their experiences in dealing with the health issues they face among mobile populations. Everyone loved us. We are pretty sure that if there was a people’s choice award, we’d have won it.
Ah but there is always one in a crowd that just doesn’t get it, isn’t there?
The only officials who were not so excited about the project were those at the federal level, especially at the Center for Disease Control (CDC). That’s probably because HIV mobility among mobile populations is pretty much a FEDERAL ISSUE and the CDC knows nothing next to nothing about this population, a population that represents roughly 6 million people in North America.
Yet everyone, even the good folks at the CDC, know full well what is happening among truckers throughout the rest of the world, the tragic situations in Africa, India, and now China. CDC officials can site these statistics and one would think North America isn’t all that different from the rest of the world. That is unless you work at the CDC.
Yet under the Bushwhacked Administration, it seems the CDC is best equipped to pursue failed abstinence strategies-ones that while they’re wholly embraced by southern evangelical conservatives, now seem to result in half of all new HIV infections coming right out of the rural south.
It is discouraging to confront the outright apathy and lack of curiosity that many individuals in this agency display. But the CDC isn’t exactly rolling in respect this year after they were forced to announce that up to 19,000 Americans a year have been dying from MRSA. The mortality rate from this infection now mirrors HIV/AIDS. How good can we feel about the competency of a federal agency that can lose 19,000 citizens a year, all from the same infection, and they don’t clue in until the press forces the issue?
Oh yeah and remember the guy with drug resistant TB? The chap who was told by CDC officials that it was ok to fly? Across the Atlantic? And remember the cover up that occurred after all that came to light?
To be in the nation’s capital, in the center of politics as usual was eye opening far beyond the public health front. On almost every level, one has to wonder exactly what IS going on. As much talk as we’ve endured about the strength of the nation under the Bushwhacked Administration, our nation is weaker on nearly every front. The dollar is plunging. The financial markets along with all the rest of middle earth/middle American housing prospects are stunning in their fragility. Oil continues to sky rocket and after billions of dollars spent supporting the war effort, of which it is estimated costs each American family $20,000 a year to fulfill, the prospects in Iraq, Afghanistan, and soon Iran, are hardly secure. The administration has undermined the constitution on so many fronts that it will take decades of legislative activism to once again restore what our nation has always stood for.
And what of Homeland Security?
It sure didn’t seem like there was much in the way of security in place (if any) at least when it came to the Metro or any of dozens of other public spaces in DC.
God only knows what lies ahead but as I watch nearly all of the Republicans, and most of the Democrats fight for the cherished ability to keep their favorite version of DC corruption firmly in place, and as they sell us out with sound bite after sound bite, I like Ron Paul more and more. Especially in the world of Mitt Happens, Shrillary, and tip toe through the debates Thompson.
So as I walked around DC, rode the Metro, experienced the smallworld of Dupont Circle, it was a very educational journey. I was growing increasingly disillusioned with the place until later in the week, Susan and I explored one of the Smithsonian offerings. Then we tackled the Native American Museum. Here I finally saw the power of a free education. If no where else, our Nation’s Capital truly shines in these amazing collections. We caught a performance of Native American Classical music, the Natural History Museum, and walked down the mall, toward the Washington Monument. I was asked to comment for some project on what I think the 44th President should put forth as their first major international priority.
I had a hard time with that one. As if enough of our treasury isn’t already going overseas.
I couldn’t help but get this sense, that at least in the scope of world historical time, America is barely a footnote. We are but a short eye blink in comparison to other civilizations, governments, and movements. Many cultures have lasted thousands of years longer. Yet Americans always see the United States as the center of the universe. We seem to believe that our system is uniquely blessed to last forever. We seem to believe we can support the rest of the planet while neglecting our own citizens and our precious backyard.
How troubling it is then to consider what one loser frat boy from Texas can do to our national heritage, the hope of future generations of Americans, and our standing in the world. How sad that our great fall from prominence was done in just under 7 years.
This I suppose remains the greatest education I receieved. As much as little George W Bush II would like to make his mark, DC is hardly the center of the universe. His legacy will not be that of a great leader, but the leader that singlehandedly took a great nation into the history books of mediocrity. The world is moving very fast, and as APHA seemed to signify, the power of Washington DC to affect the course of the planet is quickly nearing irrelevance.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
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