The Hill Drop

Thursday was my first day of work. When I got there, all of the staff was giddy with excitement. They were ecstatic not because I had finally arrived, but because some major document that they put together had finally come in the mail. Basically, they published a booklet that makes the case for why the United States should have publically funded elections.

That’s really not the point though. The point is that for my first day, my task was to complete a ‘Hill Drop’ in which I ‘drop’ these things off on the ‘hill’ where the Senators work. Capitol Hill, woohoo! My first day and I’m going to somewhere important! And I get to do it with…. No one else! Because…. Fuck it I’m not excited anymore. I had to drop 100 of these things off to 100 different offices.

My entire day was a metaphor for how frivolous D.C. is. There’s no rhyme or reason to the way they number the offices, so every floor was a crapshoot. Go right at the elevator, and you might find 201. Or maybe they’ll just start you off at 275 for the hell of it. I think that’s why everyone in the building seems busy. They’re walking around, but its not because they’ve got things to do, it’s because no one can fucking figure out where anything is.

If you’ve ever wondered why people are disillusioned with politics, come to a senator’s office sometime. Here’s how it goes: First, you walk in brimming with hope. You’re going to present your case about this issue or that and the secretary is going to drop everything, grab the phone and growl, “GET HILLARY UP HERE NOW. WE’VE GOT AN ISSUE ON OUR HANDS.” Ms. Clinton will come rushing into the front office where she will quickly size you up, determine that you are a mountain of a man, and she has no choice but to drop this whole presidential campaign bullshit and fight for your cause. Then you’ll say, “Ms. Clinton, I’m sorry, but there’s 99 more of you and I have a fucking revolution to attend to. Get to work and I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

What actually happens is you walk in brimming with hope. You walk up to the front desk for the secretary gives you a forced smile while internally reflecting on how much she hates non-profits. You’ll say, “Hi! I’m from , and this is for your Elections Legislative Assistant.” Typically, you won’t be able to finish this sentence before he or she will roll their eyes, and point to the overflowing inbox next to them filled with shit that looks just like yours. And none of them have been read. Or, they’ll be a little more polite and say, “Oh, thank you! I’ll get that to them.” Then you will leave, and they’ll use it to wipe their ass next time they hit the restrooms which typically take about an hour to find because – even though this particular assistant has worked on the hill for six years – they can’t find the bathroom because no one knows what the fuck.

There’s no way to describe how much pain my feet were in. There comes a point when you are in so much pain, that words simply cannot do it justice. I’ll give it a shot though: Imagine a thousand orgasms localized in your feet while beautiful naked women gently massage them with cocaine. Now imagine the exact opposite of that. My feet are somewhere in that region of pain.

All in all, I spent four hours walking around the hill delivering mail. At the end of the day, I definitely felt part of something bigger than myself. Some vast organization of power where mankind determines it’s path into the future. It was at this moment, that I realized my role in this machine was utterly pointless. Oh well, climb the ladder! Can one lowly intern make a difference? I don’t know. But I do know one thing: he can deliver a shitload of junkmail.

Motorcade

D.C. is like Hollywood for people who don't give a fuck about pop culture.

Whereas LA has Mann's Chinese Theater, that stupid Hollywood sign, and countless handprints in its sidewalks (who are those people anyways?), DC has the White House, that stupid phallic Washington Memorial, and countless people in suits doing important things.

I saw a motorcade today. Six black SUVS with tinted bulletproof windows, led by two police motorcycles. If I had been in LA, I would have thought, "huh. Paris Hilton is going back to rehab. What a stupid whore."

But I am in Washington D.C. That means motorcades typically transport important people. Just before the motorcade came around the corner I felt the wind stop. The sky became dark but not because of gathering clouds. Oh no, dear readers, it was because the sun literally lost some of its ability to shine. A police horse shate itself, bucked its rider, and galloped down the street nashing its teeth and screeching like a banshee. Infants began to wail, and I'm pretty sure I saw a squirrel willingly leap off a high branch, plumetting to its death. Men that looked important suddenly realized an urge to call their wives and desperately confess their transgressions with their mistresses. It was incredible.

The motorcade passed by, and then around the corner again out of view. Only then did I feel breeze on my face. It was as if God himself was gently cooing in a soothing voice, "It's ok baby. He's gone now, no one's going to hurt you. I'm here. I'm here," as he gave me a shoulder massage. Tears I didn't even realize I had been shedding were drying thanks to the sun's newly triumphant and restored brilliance. All was again right in the world.

It's just a guess, but I think that was Cheney.