THE DIRTY BUM CAMPAIGN RELEASES ROBERT’S FAMOUS HISTORY

Robert’s Identity Revealed…

After a great deal of introspection and numerous conversations with the campaign’s inner-circle, the Dirty Bum Party is releasing this October surprise in September. The candidate of the people, for the people, is releasing to the people that he is indeed from famous stock.

As anyone following his campaign knows, Robert is very fond of pronouncing of his sixties experiences, espcially his times with Janis Joplin. In his frieght car campaign blog, Robert gave insight to his relationship with Janis in the San Francisco visit.

It is without saying that Janis had a profound impact on Robert, but, little is known about Robert’s impact on Janis. With this in mind, Robert is indeed, Bobby McGee, the man for whom Ms. Joplin sang her heart out.

September 18th

The seventy-seventh day on the trail, barring unusual circumstances, it will be my last. The night before my odyssey, I recalled staring at the night sky, wondering what the journey would bring. Once revealed, reality rarely seems as daunting as imagination. Of course, unforeseen events always blindside plans, but I was told this is called life.

Physically, I’m exhausted. The reflection staring back at me in the bathroom mirror is haggard and pale. I looked forward to hibernating in my own bed. I think I will slip into Alberton unannounced, avoid any fanfare and become reacquainted with my bed.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. There’s still campaigning to do. In the birthplace of the political rock star Sarah Palin, it was time to leave my mark.

Indian summer revealed its splendor in the Northern Rockies. Morning sunlight rippled over Lake Pend Oreille chasing nighttime’s chill. I paused a moment, standing on the lake’s sandy shoreline savoring the looming Cabinet mountains. I was the returning traveler pausing and enjoying the sight of their front door before stepping inside.

Suppressing the urge to catch a ride home, I turned my attention to stumping. Inside Buck and Edna’s, I taped one of my last Robert ‘100s’ on the men’s room wall. Returning to my blonde, I started a conversation with a vacationing couple from Michigan. When I mentioned my Chief of Staff is from Ishpeming, Dave quipped, “never trust a You-per.” In Michigan parlance, a ‘You-per’ is a resident of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

“Interesting,” I countered. “I hear it’s unwise to trust a troll.” a troll is Michigan speak for anyone who lives under the Mackinaw Bridge. The state has its own language.

“They’re all a bunch of cheese heads, if you’re elected, give the UP to Wisconsin.”

In the midst of stumping, Dave’s wife Cindy, a retired schoolteacher, mentioned even though fascinated by the campaign, she was intrigued with the idea of riding the rails.

“You afraid of skinning your knees?” I asked. “You’re going to have to jump from a moving freight.” Adventure twinkled in her eyes.

My gut told me it was a bad idea. In my mind’s eye, I could see her dislocating her patella or worse. I deflected the conversation to politics and involved all the early afternoon patrons. I bought my newfound friends a round before slipping from the bar and walking the tracks out of town.

I just crossed the trestle across the northeastern finger of the lake as an eastbound freight neared. Standing aside, I waved to the engineer as engines rumbled past. I leapt upon a flatcar and rode it like a chariot into Montana and through the towns of Trout Creek and Thompson Falls. I jumped from the freight east of Paradise to catch the St. Regis cutoff.

You know you’re in Montana when the person who picks you up is has a longer beard than you and goes by the nickname Whiskers. An elbow flexing acquaintance of mine, Whiskers drove me the twenty odd miles to St. Regis where he insisted on buying me a beer at the Talking Bird. Whiskers kindly offered to drive me the remaining forty-odd miles to Alberton, but that would require the pomp of stopping by Campaign HQ, telling stories and forcing revelry. I begged my pardon and declined his offer. I told him next time in Alberton, I’d have the Campaign Manager buy him a beer. That will infuriate the self-proclaimed hooked nose Jew. He often says: “Robert, you make me see red.” He’s speaking of debt, not anger.

I stepped from my last bar of the campaign trail, found the tracks, and hiked eastward, smiling hearing a distant freight rumble behind me. Twenty minutes later, I rode the last flatcar.

The freight slowed as it passed through Cyr tunnel before coming to a stop on the siding in Lothrop, just across the Clark Fork River from Alberton. I jumped from the train and waved to the engineer as I passed the idling engine. Pausing atop the Petty Creek Road Bridge, I watched fly-fishermen ply their art from a raft. A passing pickup honked and its driver cried, “Welcome home, Robert.”

I returned the driver’s wave and hoofed it the two miles into Alberton. Railroad Ave was motionless as I entered town. Crossing Guido’s yard, I climbed the short, steep hill and stepped into my house. Locking the door behind me, I dropped my backpack on the floor and fell into my bed.

September 17th

Northern Exposure is not only a condition that plagues me, but it also is one of my favorite TV shows of all time. An aforementioned ex-wife and I were diehard fans and before our divorce, we contemplated visiting Roslyn, the nearby town where the quirky series was filmed. Tammy always held it against me that we never took time to visit.

So explains last night’s impulse to have Nate drop me at the freeway exit. In my own bit of quirkiness, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to campaign in Cicely, Alaska by proxy of Roslyn, Washington.

I trudged the two or so miles from my campsite to Roslyn. A true dork, I stood before KBHR and peered through the window, imagining Chris in the morning spieling away. I spent an hour walking about town, enjoying the sites. I was surprised to see Roslyn Café had reopened. The café is famous for the mural on the building’s side. I slipped inside and ordered breakfast.

It is said that truth is stranger than fiction in as much as fiction has to fight the battle of plausibility. Reality could care less about plausibility; reality just is, if there ever were any doubt about this concept, what happened next would serve testament. I stepped inside The Brick and felt my jaw hit the floor. The little blonde fireball to whom I once was married stood rag in hand, wiping the bar top. “Tammy?”

She looked up and had much the same reaction. She looked as if she saw a ghost; in a sense, she did. She rolled around the bar and slipped into my open arms. We embraced for a long moment. “Holy Shit,” she said stepping back. “What are… how are you doing Bobby?”

We sat down at the empty bar and caught up on our recent histories. “I looked you up in Oklahoma. They said you moved on to Wichita Falls; there, I gave up.”

Tammy said she remarried and they wanted a change of pace. “Since I couldn’t live in Alaska, I thought this would be the next best thing. Well, Montana is, but my husband was afraid of the winters. Southern boys.”

We reminisced the afternoon away. When she excused herself to visit the Ladies Room, I took a long sip from my tall blonde, left her a large tip and a Robert ‘100’ and slipped out of The Brick. I was never good at goodbyes, and I left before having to face a difficult one. With glassy eyes, I walked down 1^st Street till I found the tracks.

Somewhere between Cle Elum and Teanaway I hitched a ride on a BNSF freight. Breaking habit, I e-mailed Alberton via my blackberry and asked them to contact Chuck, the BNSF engineer I made acquaintance with in Minnesota. I was interested in seeing if he was this far west so I could hitch a ride in an engine.

I rode all day. In Spokane, I left this ride, autographed the boxcar, and found a car destined for Sandpoint. I climbed inside and waited. I must have fell asleep, because I bolted up when the car lurched and started moving. My mind was occupied with my ex-wives, I still love them all. Each one of them is a good lady. But, marriage always altered the relationship. Something always happened. No longer, could I enjoy them for who they were and vice versa. Expectations always altered reality. In the political realm, I have no expectations; the reality I see isn’t distorted.

Sandpoint: I autographed my second car of the day before finding a motel. I checked in, showered and found a quiet bar that was about to close. I enjoyed a quiet blonde before retiring for the night. Regarding the Campaign manager’s request, I made my decision.

September 16th

Since waxing poetically about my relationship with Janis Joplin my campaign manager is pushing me to reveal my identity. I knew that being pushed for just this is an inherent risk of the entire campaign. I’m unsure if I will honor his request; I feel it is unimportant and will detract from my message. In this morning’s conversation, he said he understood, but, that if I revealed my identity, it would give my message further listening. I understand his point of view; he is fighting to gain the greatest exposure for my campaign. Greater exposure versus an erosion of privacy? Like all non life-threatening decisions, I’m willing to chew this one over like this morning’s sausage.

I finished my breakfast and coffee and stepped into the awakening state capitol. Today, I am planning a whirlwind tour: besides Salem, Portland, and Seattle awaits.

Instead of standing on the capitol steps, I held my sign at the passing traffic on the corner of State and Capitol. Occasionally, I would peer at Mt. Hood looming in the distance. My sign must have been effective, for all the wrong reasons. A suite came along and slipped me a twenty, telling me mine was the most ingenious panhandling scheme he’d seen.

Taking the cue, I headed for the rail yard and a ride to Portland.

Portland: You’ve heard the expression, it’s a small world; the northwest is a smaller world. In December of 2007, a street musician on his way to Seattle found himself stranded in Alberton. In true Montana fashion, some of us adopted the motorist until he sorted out everything. This morning, at Ladd Circle, Jack stood playing his sax.

“Holy Shit,” Jack said in his cynical New York draw. We shook hands and found the nearest watering hole. “You’re running for president?” Jack enjoyed a belly laugh. “Well why not, if I can be a Street Santa Clause, you could be president. Damn it, I wish I’d know sooner, we could make a great team.”

“Get a load of this guy,” Jack said of the bartender. “He has a story to tell.”

“Hey Rennie, tell the president about deer hunting.”

In animate fashion, the bartender told the story of camping with a buddy and seeing a deer near camp. Having a sudden craving for venison, and not having a firearm, our unique bartender snuck behind a grazing doe in order to slit its throat with a hunting knife. To his credit, he succeeded. Unfortunately, for Rennie, he suffered numerous broken ribs, a broken nose and collarbone from the doe’s thrashing hind legs.

During our three hours on the bar stools, Rennie introduced me to every person who strolled through the door. If every bartender shared his enthusiasm, my endeavor would be much simpler.

“Where you headed?” Jack asked.

“Alberton via Seattle.”

“Can’t give you a ride to Montana, but I haven’t worked Seattle for a while. Wanna lift?”

Within an hour, Jack’s old Chevy van spewed a trail of exhaust over the Columbia River and up I-5 as we commiserated about ex-wives. Peering out the window, I was fascinated to see three active volcanoes in relative proximity. Seeing my gaze, Jack quipped, “They remind me of my ex-wife, beautiful to look at, but in an angry moment she could blind you with ash, burn you with lava and walk away with your wallet.”

Seattle: When I pick up any tool, it establishes a circuit in my brain which profanities flow from my mouth like spring runoff. Traffic has the same effect for Jack. After an hour and a half stream of curses and hand gestures, Jack slid from Seattle traffic and brought the van to rest.

We trudged in Ballard Smoke Shop like a post-modern odd couple. Ballard’s isn’t a smoke shop, it is a delightful dive that despite its name, survives Seattle’s smoking ban. With the head of his putter, which Jack constantly carries, acting like a judge’s gavel, he pounded the bar top. Gaining the bar’s attention, Jack ordered up a round.

The barmaid, with a top cutting as low as she stood tall, retorted without missing a beat. “I told you the next time you brought the club in here I would score an asshole in one with it.” She turned to me and said, “Jack has wanted me to scratch his hemorrhoids since we met.” She continued around the bar and gave my friend a hug, lucky guy was short enough to bury his face a little below sternum level. “How are you, sweetheart?”

“One of these days I’m gonna marry you,” he told her.

She brought a finger to her lips, “Don’t tell my boyfriend.”

So began a long evening of stumping. The barmaid, Steph, was a bouncing ball of kinetic fury, serving up the happy hour crowd while belting down Vodka like water. I seen the type before and I’m not about to reveal their secret to holding alcohol. With a wink and a nod, I informed the barmaid I wouldn’t reveal the time honored secret; I would guard it like a matter of national security. In return, like Rennie, Steph introduced me to her following of regulars.

The subject of Sarah Palin again rose. I have to hand it to McCain; in the guise of Palin, he brought the cult of personality to the campaign while managing to dodge the serious issues. Especially as the news of Lehman Brothers and another Wall Street meltdown broke. I invoked Dick Knightly and said that in a debate, Joe Biden would give Dick a run for his money, but ultimately Dick would have Biden plagiarizing him by Election Day.

Towards the end of the evening, a short, leather clad gentleman with a long beard sat next to Jack and I. Steph batted her eyelashes at the new arrival, served him a Bud bottle, and introduced her boyfriend Nate.

“Nate’s on his way to Spokane,” Steph announced. “You could hitch a ride.”

I bid Jack farewell by shaking his hand and wishing him well. I thanked Steph for her hospitality and help in introducing me to night crowd.

Unlike many with an outgoing girlfriend in the bar business, Nate understood the dynamics of the business. He realized that Steph’s act, was just that, an act to enhance the till and tips. He spoke in the soft voice of self-confidence as he drove out of Seattle and over Snoqualmie Pass. The conversation went everywhere expect politics for what I was grateful.

Acting on impulse, I asked Nate to drop me off at the exit for Roslyn. He looked at me bemused, but complied. I shook his hand, thanking him for the ride, and told him the next time his passes Alberton, to stop in Campaign HQ and I’d buy him a beer.

Exhausted, I found a campsite, unrolled my sleeping bag and prepared for a night’s rest.

September 15th

The straining engines whined as the freight struggled up a grade. The chill of mountain air nipped at my sleeping bag as I pulled my hat lower. A shiver coursed through my being. This morning’s temperature was the coolest of my journey, and a reason why I kicked off this swing on July 4th. I would hate to traverse the passes in Washington, Idaho and Montana in November. The eastern sky hinted at morning as the freight worked through the Trinity Mountains. Soon, nearby Mt. Shasta would be aglow in morning light. Hunkering down, I waited for Mt. Shasta City, and a fresh cup of coffee.

The weekend’s campaigning went well. I ran into little skepticism let alone opposition. I’m sure if I campaigned at Country clubs, county seats, and state capitol buildings I would have a different story. With the weekend’s success, I was positive of attaining my campaign’s goal in California. I visited the local coffee shop as a citizen and didn’t mention my campaign. The feeling was surreal, so accustomed I have become to gaining another’s ear.

With warm food in my belly, a hot coffee in hand, and the sun rising in the sky, I marched northward on the tracks, ready for a long ride into the heart of Oregon. I whispered to myself, “Forty-five states down, three to go.”

Oregon: On long solitary rides, one has to entertain oneself; the ride to Eugene presented the opportunity. Catching rush hour in Medford provided the opportunity to create a spectacle from the top of my flatcar. Waving my sign, I jumped up and down at every crossing and where the tracks paralleled roads. The endless expressions of the observant were priceless, some laughed, others pointed, yet others telegraphed disgust. With one, who for whatever reason struck me as particularly elitist, I shot the presidential moon.

The scenery of Oregon always appealed to me, and if it wasn’t for my little slice of Montana, I could make my home someplace west of the Cascades. A few miles north of Roseburg, I had my second bear sighting of the campaign. A hundred and fifty feet west of the tracks a sow and two cubs frolicked in a small meadow. I craned my neck as the train rumbled past and the family fell from view.

As we approached Eugene, I need the company of a tall blonde. I ditched my ride and found my way to another favorite watering hole. I didn’t know it as New Max’s in its day, but, it still maintains its old charm despite the upgrades. I’ve heard on occasion that this is supposed to be the model for Moe’s Tavern from the Simpsons; I rarely watch the show so I don’t have a clue. The other thing I love about this place, at least in the old days, was the propensity for the crowd to break out in a spontaneous rendition of Sweet Caroline. This afternoon’s crowd I wouldn’t want to hear sing, but, it did offer great stumping fodder. For the first time, I extended invites for this weekend’s convention.

Being near Sacred Heart Medical Center, I took the opportunity to stump for health care reform. On a bench outside the hospital, I wrote various catch phrases calling for universal health care on half my remaining Robert “100”s before walking inside and taping them upon vacant wheelchairs. In the elevator, I broke the silence, introduced myself, and extended my hand to befuddled riders. Enjoying the experience, I visited other elevators and rode them up and down, stumping in the confined quarters until escorted from the hospital by security. Outside, I shook the security guard’s hand, wished him good day and asked him for his vote. I cursed myself for not employing a similar tactic in the Sear’s Tower and Empire State Building. Satisfied that I left an impression in Eugene, I sauntered towards the tracks, caught the next northbound and rode the freight into the night. The full moon rose over the Cascades as my ride approached Salem. Leaping from the freight, I found a secluded corner Salem Golf Club and hunkered down for the night.

September 14th

Mother Teresa’s first miracle of canonization is the countless drunks she saved from being scrapped off the freeway. Her second miracle is lifting the sloppiest amongst us from her couch with the smell of bacon from her Sunday morning kitchen. No matter how drunk the drunk, she sees we’re fed, that our fog is lifted with freshly ground coffee and that we’re promptly shown the door after the dishes are washed.

“Sunday is Teresa’s day boys; I love you, but don’t let the door hit you on the ass.” With our thanks unacknowledged, she slammed and locked the door behind us; Mr. Freeze and I looked at each other and shrugged before making our way to his bike, across the bay bridge and into San Francisco. Much like the campaign’s early days when I was traveling with Glenda, I advertised my campaign from the bike, only this time, I secured my sign to my back.

Back in the sixties, Mr. Freeze and I were not the best of friends, but knew each other well enough. He knew of my infatuation with Janis and was with us in my apartment the night we dropped acid. With this in mind, he drove us to Haight-Ashbury and parked in front of my old apartment building. We crossed the street, sat on a bench facing my old pad and continued yesterday’s reminiscence.

A long silence eventually fell over us. “She was a good lady,” Mr. Freeze said as he patted my knee. He stood and crossed the street. “You coming?”

I gazed at the second story window. My imagination took me through it and back four decades, sitting on the tattered couch, looking deeply into her eyes before she smiled and turned her gaze.

Shaking my head, I stood and shuffled across the street. The Harley’s pipes roared; Mr. Freeze chauffeured us to Russian Hill. He guided the bike down the switchbacks of Lombard St. before stopping at 2211 Polk Street. Drinking a day after one like yesterday is dangerous business; it brings me to the doorsteps of a bender. But, the risk is necessary today, because one cannot pass up enjoying a Tall Blonde at Cresta’s. Cresta’s was Jack Kerouac’s bar when he lived at nearby 29 Russell Alley.

Inside, I was glad to see the goldfish still swim in their bowls! We pulled up stools and I fell into conversation with a silver haired eighty-year old queen to the backdrop of the 49er-Seahawk game.

After finishing my tall blonde, I ordered up a 7-up for myself and a round for the bar, all five of us. The bartender, fascinated with my quest, hung a Robert ‘100’ on the back bar. A two-hour stump ensued.

I could tell Mr. Freeze was getting antsy, my friend was A-political and the novelty of my campaign was wearing thin. Nipping his impatience in the bud, I suggested moving on. After shaking hands with all, we vacated Cresta’s and headed out of town.

As we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, I glanced to my left, enjoying my first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean on this campaign.

Knowing Mr. Freeze had the bug to ride, and knowing that my tolerance of riding was approaching its limit, I kept my eyes open for a freight. As we neared Fairfield, my opportunity arrived and I tapped his shoulder. “I gotta piss, man.”

We stopped at an Applebee’s knowing as I stepped away, Mr. Freeze would be gone when I emerged, free spirits as ourselves understand this dance, it isn’t anything personal. Maybe, we just suck at goodbyes. Inside, I heard him ride off and I turned around and returned to the parking lot. I cinched my pack and trudged to a C-store, bought supplies and headed for the tracks. Within an hour, I was on a freight headed for Davis. I jumped from the spur line and walked the north-south tracks until I heard a northbound rumble behind me.

As I settled into an open boxcar, I had the feeling that I was on my way home.

September 13th

The idea of passing through Sacramento and getting to San Francisco was enticing, but I owed the California capital a visit, if for no other reason than a couple of dives that needed to see my shadow once more.

I stepped out of the boxcar with an idea that would save taxpayers copiously. I autographed the Union Pacific as I would any other, in addition, I assigned this one: “Boxcar 1” In my administration, I will eliminate unnecessary travel in Air Force 1. All regional travel will be in a retrofitted boxcar which will be dubbed, Boxcar 1. The savings in jet fuel should be enough to fund the construction of a couple/three schools. I do not want to be chauffeured about like an elected monarch.

I stepped into one of my favorite dives of all time, Old Tavern Bar. When I use to linger in Cali, I often would frequent this place. The smell of piss, mold and vinegar immediately attacked me. With a smile, I ponied up to the bar, ordered a Tall Blonde and watched a Tomcat trudge across the bar top with a mouse clenched in its mouth.

The late morning over fifty crowd dominated the scene. I sat back, sipped my blonde, feeling my taste buds come alive with the feel of pilsner. I closed my eyes for a moment, recalling memories of the OT.

“Robert?” a gravelly voice mumbled.

I spun on the bar stool and looked up into a bearded face. The bags under the eyes and the gray in his hair and beard more pronounced than I remember. I greeted my old friend: “Hey, hey, it’s Mr. Freeze!” His grip, still viselike, engulfed and crushed my hand, the strength of a steelworker still present. I caught the bartender’s attention and ordered up two shots.

“No shit,” Mr. Freeze laughed when I told him of my quest. “I always knew you were your own man, but ain’t this a bit extreme?”

“Can’t do any worse than what’s running against me.” I winced as I repeated the comment I despise the most.

We slammed the shots and reminisced. “You still chasing the ghost of Janice?” he asked.

“She was a good lady.”

About then, a tall brunette with tired eyes and an energetic stride stormed into the bar, ponied up next to us, threw a fifty on the bar, ordered a double vodka and grapefruit for herself and a round for the bar. “Kip, my pants back there?” As he handed a pair of black leather pants over the bar, the brunette turned to us and said, “I left ‘em here last night.” She slammed her drink down, left a twenty-dollar tip on the bar and stormed out the door.

I turned to Mr. Freeze and said, “In another time, I would have married that lady.”

“And be divorced a week later.”

“But what a week it would be.”

Twenty minutes later, I was riding on the back of Mr. Freeze’s Harley on the way to Lodi. It is rumored that even though CCR sang about her, John Foggerty never stepped foot within the city. If you ask me, creating such an image without firsthand knowledge is a sign of a great artist. On Sacramento Street, Mr. Freeze pulled the bike to a rest in front of Jack’s Back. We stepped inside and I bought my old friend a drink and used his connections to stump. During lulls in conversation, I turned my attention to the TV and the scenes of Hurricane Ike’s wrath and the train wreck outside of Los Angles.

The tone of the day was set. With visits to Rio Vista, Fairfield, Cordelia, Benica, and Berkeley, I took advantage of Mr. Freeze’s continued popularity and scored numerous pledged votes. I even ran into a couple of long, lost acquaintances. Even though our faces and bodies have aged, we still relate to each other with the spirit of irresponsible young adults, more bent on raising hell and having a good time than conforming. As always, our age betrays us and life experience kicks in and the conversation turns to politics.

Time is a wonderful thing, in the sense of seeing the evolution of an individual whose main concern once was scoring a dime bag who now fretted about the leanings of the Supreme Court.
In the Festoon Saloon, an old friend of Mr. Freeze’s, Teresa, known by many as Mother Teresa, the patron saint of drunken bikers, instructed us that we would be crashing at her house or on the freeway, and the freeway isn’t an option. Being under the influence of stumping juice, I wasn’t one to argue, I was tickled to have a place to crash.

Upon Mother Teresa’s couch, I attended to my responsibilities and sent my dispatch to Alberton before resting for my return to the city by the bay.