"The Trail" part 1

As you can well see, I have been neglecting this blog for quite some time now. Working on the road for three months tends to change your routine and being paid to know the every move a Presidential candidate means when you're not working you're sleeping, eating or drinking your face off with fellow reporters or (when you're lucky) staffers. It's the same reason, despite the urging from every friend and colleague to keep a journal, that no such document now exists.

Cut to today -- I was trying to make a dent in the mountain of expenses I have accumulated (living on an expense account is amazing, coming home and actually paying for food fucking blows) and I was reliving some moments from the trail via receipts. It's not a half bad way to rekindle the experience but it may prove more beneficial to spend the next few posts sharing anecdotes for digital prosperity.

I told a co-worker today that the experience was life altering. At first she bristled and looked at me like I was Sarah Bernhardt. But then I explained; you spend three months living in hotels and all but forsaking the life you've built. Sure, it's temporary. The best (or worst depending on your point of view) case scenario was one in which "the road" lasted about a year -- so there was always a solid "out." You can't help, however, to be changed by the experience. If nothing else I saw parts of this country I would have never had any reason to see. From bigger cities (why the hell would I ever go to Grand Rapids, Michigan?) to small towns (Garden City, Kansas anyone? -- it smells like cow shit when you get off the plane).

The days were often long and there are plenty of places I want to go back to, if only to make sure there is more to them then the inside of a Marriott Courtyard hotel room, but as Stewie says in my favorite Family Guy scene, the "main character is richer for the experience."

Enough with the preamble -- here now, part one of some undetermined number of posts on "the trail"

"You Know You're in the South When..."
My first week on the rail, way back in December, I was traveling more or less solo. The campaign was not yet providing transportation so I was flying commercial and renting cars everywhere I went. I had flown into Little Rock while the Governor took a day to do media. He had no campaign events scheduled but because the Wayne Dumondd question was coming up again I needed to be there in case there was a presser.

Thanks to a lack of knowledge of Little Rock and the asinine practices of our bean counters, I ended up way outside of town on a desolate stretch of highway in a Marriott Courtyard (number 1 of too many to count), my only friends a Best Buy and a Taco Bell I'm still regretting. But that's not the story...

As I was leaving Little Rock for some other destination (see, I should have kept a journal) I overheard two conversations that told me right where I was. I'm not trying to paint the south, or Arkansas as simple or unrefined -- it's simply an observation of cultural differences that I eventually came to truly appreciate.

First, as I was checking in at the counter, another passenger was arguing with the woman at the baggage screening machine,

Passenger: "it's not like it's loaded. What do you mean I can't bring the gun on the plane?"
TSA Agent: "you cannot bring a gun into the cabin sir and the ammo must be in a separate bag."
Passenger: "well that's silly"

No sir, it's not -- unless your job title rhymes with "poo-ess farshall" I don't want you bringing guns...AND LIVE AMMO on my plane please and thank you.

Then (story's almost done guys, hang in there) as I waited at the gate I overheard a very pleasant woman of about 50 bragging about her grand kids. It sounded like a typical doting grandma, and one with a good head on her shoulders -- the same could not be said for her daughter and son-in-law, "My daughter has 4 boys" she said, "all named Tim. She's pregnant ya know and I said to her, 'honey, please don't name this one Tim!"

Priceless