Last week, I went down to Biloxi to see family. As I’ve done, now a couple of times, I took Amtrak down. Roomette allows me privacy and food for a couple of days. It’s slow, but, generally it’s a relaxing trip. The trip down was just that. Poured through podcast queue, and listened to some stuff on Apple Music.
The trip back, on the other hand, was an absolute shitshow. The ride from Biloxi to Hattiesburg wasn’t great because the car’s A/C wasn’t working. The train was running about twenty minutes behind to board. The morning of the trip, I got notification that my assignment had been changed. It appeared that I’d been switched to a bedroom, something I’d considered. I didn’t feel like bidding up, but given that it was Independence Day, maybe the rooms weren’t sold. Whatever. The roomette is fine; I don’t need a whole bedroom to myself. So, car ####, Bedroom 2. Fine. I didn’t pay any more for it.
Got on the train, and the conductor directed me to my room. And it’s a roomette in a new car. The car is a bit warm, but it’s probably something with power being on and off. Once this blocking freight train moves off, it’ll be fine.
There’s also no toilet in the new roomette, which was annoying. I would have to make sure I’m dressed, and wearing shoes to go use the bathroom. Annoying. Is there a roomette with a toilet in a different car?
But we finally pulled out of Hattiesburg, and things aren’t working. The A/C never really kicked on. Wait for another freight train, and it’s getting hot. Down one of the water bottles. Stumble down to the toilet, and it doesn’t flush. Well, just number one, and it went down the hole. I did blow my nose with a piece of toilet paper, and that was still there. Whatever.
Head back to my talentless-roomette. Why are we stopping? When is that A/C going to kick on? It’s like 95 degrees outside. I’m starting to sweat through my shirt.
When I get hot, two things happen. First, I have trouble with my diaphragm; the MS Hug. Second, my vision gets notably worse. (Strangely, I’ve really not had problems with this when I’m in the gym. I can go hard, and my vision seems to be, generally, fine.)
Now we’re going back to Hattiesburg because there’s a power problem. Great.
We were told that we could go into the station to cool off while they figure out what’s wrong. Leave my suitcase, but take the laptop bag.
I was not very nice to the car attendant who finally escorted me off into the station. I wasn’t sure whether I’d be able to get home from Hattiesburg, my legs weren’t working, and I couldn’t see.
I might have even used the dreaded F-word.
Were they going to cancel the train? If so, where the hell would I go? It’s not like there’s a ton of ways in or out of Hattiesburg, Mississippi.
The guy running the counter in the station wasn’t an Amtrak employee, and he seemed at least accommodating to my physical distress.
After about 45 minutes, we finally were put back on the train. I apologized all over myself about my discourtesy earlier.
The actual roll up to Virginia was largely uneventful, though it was uncomfortable having to walk to the two toilets at the other end of the car periodically.
The pod queue got pretty much emptied, but I was really working through a few things.
My ire might have been fueled by this FP article. This kid was publicly-shamed for something he absolutely did not do, and it had major effects on his life. The adults at the school basically kicked him out, and the people responsible for that remained nameless hidden behind a veil of academia.
No. That’s fucked up. (There I go again) If you are at all responsible for this misdeed, you lose your own right to privacy. Sign your name. For almost everything I’ve done in my life, I’ve made sure that with the exception of things that are between myself and my wife, there’s few things in my life I’m ashamed of.
UPDATE: Amtrak, after an hour on hold, gave me a credit for what i experienced. Still, I’m probably not going to use them nearly as often. The trip back sucked.
I’ve seen a catchphrase used often lately; Don’t huck his/her/my yum.
By and large, I agree with the sentiment. At the same time, there’s things that I like or dislike that aren’t the business of anyone other than a select few people. What I do in a private setting is my and one other person’s business. Nobody else needs to know.
Those preferences are held in confidence; the world doesn’t need to know.
While they’re not shameful, I don’t need to share them with anybody.
Perhaps it was a function of being in the “Bible Belt,” but two things came to mind.
Lewis Grizzard’s Don’t Believe Ida Told That was the first thing that came to mind, along with Sister Bertha-Better-Than-You from Ray Stevens’ Mississippi Squirrel Revival.
The public confessional thing in the Protestant churches is something that’s unfamiliar to me as a lapsed member of the Papist Conspiracy.
You share your deep secrets to a priest who’s bound to keep them secret. They are among you, the priest, and God.
Nobody else needs to know. For most things, there’s nothing to be proud of.
Discussion, too, of Disability Awareness Month on Twi^H^H^HX.
I didn’t know that there was a pride month for those. I’m not proud that I have MS, or that I’ve been diagnosed with OCD, two of the disabilities covered by the Americans With Disabilities Act. The mental disability might well be a function of some really bad coping mechanisms I developed to deal with my physical problems.
Why should I be proud of that?
Yeah, it might seem like I’ve got a case of the Mondays, but Lawrence’s response, to me, is 100% correct.
Nobody needs to know.
Same is true of so many things in life.
I’m listening to EconTalk on specialization.
Whatever you’re good at, whatever you like, is none of my business. I don’t have the right to make you do things for me. If you’ve produced enough excess that you’re willing to trade with me, wonderful.
My mind is wandering. Time to take a break.
