Walk a Mile with a Six Shooter and a Towel

*Originally written in 2013. Updated for COVID19

Do swimming and firearms have anything in common?  They seem as far flung as any two things can be, but the commonality is the passion people have around each. 

For me, it’s swimming. I love to be in the ocean, or a lake, but I’ll even accept a chlorinated swimming pool in winter. Sometimes I swim with friends, but more often I’m on my own, submerging my body in the cool water, and breathing in relaxation. I swim strokes for exercise, but more often I just float and enjoy the experience. In the water, the worries of the day seem far away. 

Of course, I know plenty of people who don’t swim. Many don’t like the water because it is too cold. Others fear dangerous tides or lurking sea creatures. Some people simply don’t like to get wet. The point is, it is okay to not feel a kinship with the water.  

I’m not a gun person. I don’t hunt. I don’t believe firearms are a good plan for self protection. I translate the 2nd amendment only as a law to allow assembling a militia because I do not believe the founding fathers ever intended individual Americans to possess military style assault rifles. But there are plenty of Americans who believe in guns and their right to own them. Holding a gun, sighting the target, and pulling the trigger must give them a sense of well being similar to my enjoyment of being in the ocean.  

On average 6,000 people drown in the US annually compared to 30,000 people who die from gunshot wounds.

Obviously, statistics comparing drowning versus gunshot deaths are not even in the same league, but I believe it is important to walk a mile in the other pair of shoes to see the big picture. So, here we go:

Let’s imagine in an attempt to save the lives of the 6,000 annual drowning victims, the government has decided to impose swimming restrictions on everyone. Swimming would only be allowed in public pools or designated swimming areas monitored by trained life guards during certain hours, and before being allowed in the water, a swimming test was required. Ridiculous, right? Why should I have to give up swimming wherever and whenever I want just because some careless people drown? I learned to swim as a child, and I know my limits. I’m not going to drown. 

As a society advances, it becomes more complex, and requires more rules and less freedom. Technical advancements break down mores that bind a simpler society. The mere understanding of right and wrong can no longer be relied on to direct human actions. The result is that sacrifices must be endured for the greater good; even if it seems unfair, that is the price each of us needs to pay for everyone to live together in (relative) peace.

Understanding this broader view, I reconsidered the question:

Would I be willing to limit my exposure to an activity that I enjoy in order to save the lives of other who may not do it safely?

Only being allowed to swim at certain times of the day and in designated areas monitored by a lifeguard  feels restrictive and unfair, but I would accept this small sacrifice for a greater good. New laws won’t stop rule breakers who choose to skinny dip unsupervised at midnight, and laws won’t stop illegal weapon exchanges, but that doesn’t mean these laws shouldn’t exist.

Laws are a civilized society’s way of saying, “I can handle (this responsibility), but I’m willing to give up some individual freedom because I’m not so sure about that guy over there.”

Look up from your little pool of water to admire the vastness of the ocean. Really big issues affect more than just you, or the people in your house, or the neighbors on your street. The REALLY BIG issues, like gun violence, affect everyone. Please stay well informed and consider what is best for society beyond personal wants and needs.

No one ever knows if he will need a towel based on a single drop of water.

Since I originally wrote this the COVID-19 pandemic struck, and a debate has raged over wearing masks, socially distancing and local lock downs. Some Americans accepted the need to make sacrifices for the greater good in order to save lives, but a shockingly large portion of the American population fought against all safety measures. As of today, over a million Americans have died of the virus. The infection is spread largely by people refusing to take the simple steps to protect themselves and others. Wearing a mask and staying socially distanced from friends and family is a sacrifice, but it seems like a pretty small one in exchange for saving lives.

I stand by my original conclusion from this blog post written in 2013: Stay informed. Gain a broad perspective. Respect others. And please #wearamask

You Never Forget How to Ride a Bike?

You never forget how to ride a bike.

It’s called a procedural memory, a knowledge learned at a young age that becomes so ingrained, you don’t have to consciously think (how to walk or swim, how to write or tie your shoes, not to touch a hot stove). This information is stored in a specific area of the brain, and is always accessible, but here is a secret:

You can forget how to ride a bike.

If something happens to the brain, that information can be lost. Thankfully, aside from traumatic brain injury or early onset dementia, you don’t have to worry about losing those little gems, but as you get older, the guarantee expires.

The other night, my dad (aged 92) tried to pull a casserole out without an oven mitt. I swatted his arm away, avoiding a visit to the ER, but he seemed confused by my interference. He said it never occurred to him that the dish would be hot.

Dad struggles with word retrieval. He forgets to eat lunch. He can’t remember how to make the microwave or the television set work, and like the hot casserole dish, I’m caught off guard as each of these procedural memories expires.

My dad taught me to ride a bike. I never imagined that one day, he wouldn’t be able to ride one.

I thought convincing him to stop driving was the biggest challenge, until I had to stop him from ordering random things off the internet. I allow him as much independence as possible, exercising patience when he pushes back, but he is getting close to the point where sleeping is the only thing he is allowed to do without supervision. With each adjustment, I’m careful not to blame his limitations. Instead, I repeat that we are facing these changes together, and the new rules are not meant to punish or control him, but instead to make things easier on me.

As his world shrinks, my compassion grows. Who will pull a casserole out of the oven for me when I’m older? Will I know when it’s no longer safe to drive?  How will I react the day I hop on my bike and can’t make it go?

Middle age is like standing at the pivot point of a seesaw trying to balance memories of boundless youth against the limits of aging. Until, one day, it’s time to get down and let someone guide you home.

Virtual Reality

Significant experiences live inside us. Moments evoked by a song, a smell, or a situation often initially prompt a smile, but even the most precious pieces of the past feel bittersweet being reincarnated. The decades cast a shadow.

Photo Credit: Martino Pietropoli (courtesy of Unsplash)

Yesterday, one of those moments swept in like a summer downpour. The memory bloomed as time rewound thirty years to a flood of young love, and the joy it brings. 

I’m not currently in a relationship. All the feelings were deeply rooted in lost love, and when the rush dissolved, I felt a dull ache lingering like a hangover. 

Did I make the right choices? Could I have changed the outcome? Pushing the questions aside, I grasped for the memory again desperate to be there just a little longer, but I couldn’t hold on. 

Between the flood of tears and choking breaths, I whispered to myself, “everything happens for a reason.” For I would not be here without lessons and opportunities born of past losses.

Somedays the lure of years gone by is tempting, but I don’t want to get stuck there. It’s a virtual reality, created in my mind. I have power over it, and when I turn it off, I return to my present to create a new adventure.

What Came Before

The Summer I Turned Pretty (an Amazon Original Series based on the books by Jenny Han) is the perfect escape from the real world this summer. Belly, Conrad, and Jeremiah took me right back to summers with my friends in the 1980s, and of course, the complexities of summer romance.

My guy presented a little more like Jeremiah on the surface. He was the guy everyone was drawn to, cute, fun, up for anything, but he had a thick stubborn layer of Conrad underneath. Indecisive, uncertain, never talking about what was bothering him, and always handling things badly.

He was a great kisser and my best friend. Our connection was like a sparkler on fourth of July. Even people who didn’t know us well could see the intensity.

And when he was kissing other girls, he was still my whole world.

We fought in a smoldering silent way, rarely raising our voices, but unmistakably displaying our displeasure. Even during the bad times, I always believed in him. I stood up for him. I supported him. It was my fatal flaw. If I had put all the energy and love I saved for him into believing in myself, I never would have gotten so lost.

Watching The Summer I Turned Pretty, I cheered every time Belly tried to draw a line with Conrad because it was more than I could ever manage, and I totally understood how easy it was to fall back into his orbit. We’ve all been there, sister.

I didn’t believe there was a line my guy could cross that would make me walk away, but I was wrong. Eventually, he broke me so badly that I could no longer defend him, and it wasn’t just my heart that hurt. He killed my spirit and destroyed my trust. 

The only thing anyone noticed was that after many years, he was no longer by my side, but from my perspective, the world was upside down. I recognized nothing, least of all myself. I floated through days in a nightmarish state-untethered, frightened, and alone trying to find my way, but without any idea where to go. 

Slowly, piece by piece, I touched down on patches of solid ground. They were unfamiliar and that was comforting. What had been before did not exist now.

My new world was about me, trying new things, meeting new people, asking new questions, and discovering new strengths. As I woke up from my nightmare, I took comfort in understanding that I didn’t need him. I didn’t need anyone.

After completing The Summer I Turned Pretty series on Amazon, I read the books by Jenny Han. I was impressed when Belly chose to figure things out on her own. 

We all need the opportunity to get to know ourselves because like Cleveland said, you can’t be good with someone else, until you’re good with yourself. 

Now I know that my heart is #TeamConrad, but I’ll never stop cheering for #TeamBelly

I Hate to Admit It…

I hate to admit it…but I’m a little (okay, a lot) obsessed with Candace Owens.

Why would this woman labor so vigilantly against her own interests by supporting right wing conservatives who demonstratively repress and demean both women and African Americans?

After diving into her background, I was surprised to discover she set out in the world as a mouthpiece for Progressives, but her change of heart was not a case of “if you can’t beat them, join them.”

It was when her website, SocialAutopsy.com (designed to expose internet bullies, now defunct), faced harsh criticism from all sides that she immediately dedicated herself to attacking the left.

I suspect that after the America she believed in betrayed her, she blindly pivoted to attack mode.

Some focus on her lies.

Others mock her ignorance.

But no commentary I’ve ever seen chooses to point out that Candance’s words and actions are not motivated by politics. 

Candace is, essentially, the living embodiment of a Marvel villain. The personal hurt she experienced devolved into a vendetta turning her life into a cautionary tale for how anger and fear motivate people to do the wrong thing.

The ultimate irony is, she is only hurting herself. Cue the dramatic music.

Hate changes you, and the longer you hold onto it, the harder it is to let go.

And the deeper truth is that if the poison flowing through her veins were to be tested, it would reveal the true source of her pain. Candance’s hate is self-hate. And it has dug in deep.  

If she had not been bullied as a child and instead experienced love and understanding, would she be on a different path? Probably. But being able to overcome obstacles with grace is the ultimate test of humanity, and she will continue to fail that test until she finds the strength to bloodlet her own misery.

We Have to Save Ourselves

Americans today are hell bent on rule breaking.

Trump’s lifetime of crime without consequences made him the ultimate role model for the “you can’t tell me what to do” crowd.

Educational institutions now teach “active shooter drills.

People on planes refuse to wear a masks, or take their seat, or turn off their cell phone.

Coordinated bandits loot stores during business hours.

Individuals carelessly spread a deadly virus in the name of “personal freedom.”

The community fabric that used to hold us together is splitting apart.

In the United States we shout about being the “greatest” country in the world, but many choose to forget (or never learn) what happened to all the greats who came before .

Spoiler Alert: Every other civilization holding the top title collapsed:

Ancient Egypt

Ancient Greece

The Roman Empire

The Ottoman Empire

The Incan Civilization

The Mayans

The Aztecs

Society is supposed to be all about working together to solve problems. When neighbors stop cooperating, society crumbles. Check out these outward signs of a pending demise:

*Central government stalls due to petty feuds

*Literacy falters

*Population declines (illness, natural disasters, and migration)

*Extreme inequality becomes evident  

Anything look familiar?

We haven’t fallen off the cliff just yet, but how can we step back from the brink and unite like we did after 9/11? How can we reinvigorate the spirit of mutual trust and support?

Here are a few ideas on where to start:

1. The Golden Rule. In case you forgot, it means treat others the way you want to be treated. Let’s start there and use it to rediscover how to act collectively for the greater good.

2. Open up your eyes, your ears, and your mind. Listen to scientists and other experts with years of education and experience. Follow their lead instead of putting faith in some TV pundit or loud mouthed politician.

3. Push out and shut down those intent on stirring up trouble (I’m looking at you, Tucker Carlson and Margie three names).

Because no one is coming to save us.

We have to save ourselves.

Seeing is Not Always Bee-lieving

About age 10, I was playing SPUD in the front yard with some friends. The game started with someone throwing the ball up and calling out a name. I ran. But no one yelled SPUD.

I looked back to see what went wrong. The ball was on the ground amidst a cloud of insects. My friends were disappearing around the side of the house.

“Where are you going? It’s just knats!” I insisted waving my hands at the bugs as I walked back toward the ball. Getting stung shifted my perspective. The noticeably larger than knat-sized bees rose in a cartoon like swarm from a nest buried in the ground, but why did it take me so long to figure out what was happening?

This past year, I thought a lot about the bees. Every time someone shouted “hoax” about the pandemic, or repeated it was “just like the flu,” I remembered that day. “Come back! They’re just knats!”

Beliefs are formed when experiences are filtered through personality. If feeling powerless is a trigger, avoiding that feeling is paramount, but some situations are unavoidable.

Perhaps I didn’t “see” the bees that day because when the ball was thrown in the air, I moved away from the safety of the house. My brain refused to register the threat because, if the bees were real, I was screwed. The denial held until the pain of being stung broke it.

When the pandemic descended on America, experts, and those with authority, presented conflicting information. Scientists couldn’t even agree how the virus was transmitted. The only facts were there was no cure, it was spreading, and despite wearing masks and taking protective measures, people were getting sick.

Not surprisingly, some refused to acknowledge the threat. The fear was too overwhelming. Discounting precautions as unnecessary panic was easier than facing the uncertainty.

Thanks to the vaccine, we are starting to come out of the pandemic now. As survivors, the experience has been programmed into our belief system, and I expect to be better prepared should another pandemic occur in my lifetime, but what about the deniers? Do they live forever in an alternate reality?

Note: I am not a doctor or mental health professional. I have written this piece based on my understanding of the world (personality + experience = beliefs). None of the supposition presented above is meant to be taken as facts or advice, merely hypothesis.

Body Language Bias at the Ford Kavanaugh Hearing

For many, the Ford/Kavanaugh hearing on September 27 cemented already formed opinions, but it did not resolve the issue at hand. As a body language specialist, I followed the hearing with great interest; though not to witness the predicatable he said/she said statments. I watched to take note of the non-verbal indicators that filled in a rich subtext during yesterday’s hearing.

Body language is the primary form of non-verbal communication (the process by which meaning is conveyed without words) and an enormous amount of physical behavior was on display during the Ford/Kavanaugh hearing. For this post, I’ve chosen to focus on Brett Kavanaugh’s opening statement only. Most non-verbal spectators would skip his prepared remarks in exchange for more “genuine” body language indicators divulged from unrehearsed responses, but I found his prepared remarks to be suffused with signals revealing a hidden truth he practiced to obscure.

Brett Kavanaugh had been well trained to speak in public. Considering a simple summary of body language best practices including eye contact, visible hands, deliberate posture, and calculated tone of voice, he incorporated each of these studiously. He knew to keep his hands visible to appear more trustworthy. He knew to keep his head and body leaned forward to show he was fully engaged in delivering his message to the committee. He knew that his words must match his body language in order to appear authentic. He spoke loudly. He knit his eyebrows together to convey an angry facial expression. He emphasized his indignation with punctuated pounding on the desk. And thanks to his practiced effort, Kavanaugh’s message did come across clearly; he showed everyone in that room and everyone watching on television how exasperated he was with those who do not support his nomination to the Supreme Court.

The great thing about body language is that even if you are well trained, like Brett Kavanaugh, you cannot completely control your non-verbal messages. Your real emotions will always reveal themselves. After Kavanaugh finished speaking yesterday, I went online, found a recording of his full opening statement and watched again with the sound off to avoid being distracted by his words. I focused on his face, and he did not disappoint. Brett Kavanaugh’s predominant and deliberate anger was sprinkled with flashes of fear, sadness, disgust, and contempt.

The subtle change in his facial expressions could have been easily missed by an untrained eye, and in fact most of what he exhibited was not at all surprising. He would surely be feeling fear at the possibility of losing of his Supreme Court appointment. He was undeniably sad that his family was subjected to such terrible stories, and he never tried to hide his disgust with the Democrats who he blamed for dragging all this up. Contempt, however, is the one to watch. So, when Brett Kavanaugh flashed contempt, I turned the volume back on.

Two of the phrases Brett Kavanaugh spoke immediately prior to showing contempt:

“I’m innocent”

“I’m here today to tell the truth”

Contempt is a defined by Merriam-Webster as “the act of despising, willful disobedience, and open disrespect for a court, judge, or legislative body.”

I do not consider myself an expert in lie detection, and I am aware that any lie detection specialist relies on a cluster of red flags before suggesting a subject is being untruthful, but an inability to hide his contempt did not do Mr. Kavanaugh any favors.

Though contempt alone is not considered hard evidence, I will offer another bit of science about lie detection. When someone lies, the tissue in the nose becomes inflamed. As a result, the liar tends to touch/rub the nose. Kavanaugh, being carefully trained, would have known to actively avoid reaching his hands to his face for any reason. Yet anyone watching him speak surely noticed that Brett Kavanaugh suffered from a terrible case of the sniffles. He sniffed and sniffed and sniffed his way through the prepared statement.  Did you find it odd for someone with such persistent sniffles to never reach for a tissue?

There were enough non-verbal observations from the hearing to fill a book (when he leaned away from the questioner, when he shrunk down in his chair, when he reached across his body and squeezed the opposite arm) but the final body language indicator that stood out from the rest was one unfamiliar to me, though it was hard for anyone to miss Kavanaugh repeatedly thrusting his tongue into his cheek during the second half of his prepared remarks. The conspicuous act of pushing at your cheek with your tongue is not a definitive gesture. It could be an act of self-soothing, an indicator of uncertainty, or simply show the person is being pensive. It would take greater familiarity with Brett Kavanaugh as an individual to understand what this particular body language cue indicates about him. I plan to watch for it again in the future.

Overall, despite his large degree of preparation to come across strong and defiant, Brett Kavanaugh came up short. Subconscious and involuntary body language cannot be controlled or faked for an extended period of time, and his body language during the hearing uncovered red flags that muddied the innocence he professed. Though his body language did not uncover any certainty, it did raise plenty of additional questions. The only complete truth that came out of the hearing was that Brett Kavanaugh and most of his Republican supporters will not back down, and that might mean America ends up with Brett Kavanaugh on the Supreme Court.

Authors Note: When I set out to write this piece, my intention was to share observations from my background in body language science. The expected result was impartial data. However, by the time the particulars had been included, my bias was obvious. After careful consideration, I decided not to extricate my opinion from my observation. Instead, I encourage other trained observers of the body language to provide alternative interpretations. Thank you in advance for your expertise.

When Life Imitates The Dukes of Hazzard

downloadDo you remember the television show “The Dukes of Hazzard” (CBS Jan ’79-Feb ’85)? Even if you aren’t old enough to have waited anxiously on Friday nights for each new episode like I did, you may have seen reruns on CMT. No? Well, it was a pretty simple premise-a family of cousins with the last name Duke get mixed-up in the schemes of County Commissioner Boss Hogg, who along with his sheriff, Roscoe P. Coltrane, enjoyed trying to put Bo and Luke Duke in jail for cause or not. Filmed in California, but set in a rural Georgia community known as Hazzard County, the show depicted a sleepy town where not much would happen without the money grubbing ploys staged by Boss Hogg to line his pockets. Does Hazzard County, GA actually exist? Not on any map, but speed traps targeting out of state drivers to generate revenue for Georgia towns are a reality. This vignette is my personal experience of being pulled over by a local county sheriff in Georgia.

Traveling in the middle of a three lane stretch of I-95, I cruised along with predominantly Georgia plated cars. When blue lights flashed behind me, I pull into the right-hand lane to allow the policeman to pass by and ruin someone else’s day. Inexplicably, he stuck to my rear bumper until I eased onto the shoulder. When the policeman insisted I was driving 87 in a 70, my jaw dropped, but as much as I wanted to call out his BS, I was wise enough to restrain myself from arguing with this local county mountie on the side of a highway. Few laudable accomplishments remain in my mid-life pocket, but a clean driving record was one I intended to preserve. After accepting the ticket, I scanned it quickly to find out which day I’d be returning to clear my name it in court.

 In my younger years, I received speeding tickets in other areas of the country, but in those instances, I was guilty. So, I paid the fine by mail and moved on with my life. This time I was ready to fight. Besides, the officer would not bother to show up and the judge would let me off. Isn’t that’s the way traffic court usually works? Well, not in Hazzard County and like that soundstage in Hollywood, this little Georgia town ran its circus a bit differently from most. The two-story brick courthouse was tucked off the main drag just behind town hall. After parking under the moss covered oak trees, I took the five minutes necessary to stroll around town. I read the requisite civil war placard, admired the tidy brick buildings with painted wooden calling cards above the doorways, and marveled at the solitude. Neither tourist nor resident strolled the abandoned sidewalks at mid- day and no cars needed wait as I navigated the four-lane main drag at a snail’s pace in my black flats. This little town was lost somewhere too far from either I-95 or the ocean to be relevant. 

After waiting on a hard wooden bench outside the court room where the other speed trap victims gathered, we were eventually ushered in a slow moving mostly straight line into the old-fashioned wood paneled court room like a chain gang headed for sentencing. Before court began, a jester-like bailiff explained how the judge would call each of us by name and ask how we chose to proceed. Since more than 50 anxious out-of-staters like me fidgeted on the now thinly cushioned benches, it appeared that proceedings might take a lot of time, but she assured us that things would move quickly. “You’ll see” she winked. The judge entered and everyone stood. After being instructed to sit, her honor explained that each of us would be called by name. When our name was called, we should stand, and let her know which if the two options we chose. Option 1: Speak with the prosecutor, or Option 2: plead “not guilty” and set a future date for trial. The crowd began to murmur, but she assured us that after the first few, the rest of us would “get the hang of it”.

 We learned fast that despite the illusion of choice, only one correct answer existed. “I’d like to speak with the prosecutor ma’am” is what her honor wanted to hear. If anyone insisted on pleading “not guilty” she re-instructed them to speak with the prosecutor. After every single person in the room relented, we were lined up in two rows and hurried through our chat with the prosecutor based on our violation. Anyone driving less than 90 mph (in a 70 mph zone) had their charges dismissed as long as they forked over the $180 fine plus court fees (a total of $240) in cash. Luckily, I came prepared after noticing the large bold print at the bottom of my summons indicating that no credit cards or checks would be accepted. Easily 85% of the culprits were set free after paying the fine, though I did see one woman escorted to the pokey (as Sherrif Roscoe P Coltrane of Hazzard County called it) after it turned out she had been speeding at 107mph and (I’m guessing), she was not so flush with cash.

After walking out of court, I felt certain to spy Boss Hogg in his white three-piece suit checking his pocket watch as he crossed the town square with Roscoe hot on his heels. I took one last look around the little town that was not named Hazzard but probably should have been, and thought about how I could have insisted on having my day in court where I called out the system for its unfair targeting of out of state drivers and questioned the legitimacy of my infraction, but that would have required a second trip to rural Georgia to defend a not guilty plea. So, myself, and most of my fellow victims (one man drove down from Baltimore, MD to fight his ticket) sold out for an expunged driving record and no need to travel hundreds of miles for a second court appearance. 

I believe we all do our best to stay on the right side of the road in life, but when the potholes grow deep and there is no money to fix them, blazing a new route is the most sensible way to keep moving forward. I could see that this town needed help to survive. It didn’t have appeal enough to draw industry or forward thinking to encourage innovation. Maybe they identified with Hazzard County a little too much. To an outsider like me, it seems unfair and dishonest to prop up a town with revenue gathered from unsuspecting passersby, but it is this subtle style of moral degradation that increasingly permeates current American society, and no one complains too loudly as long the targets are strangers  rather than neighbors.

Take the Hand of the Monster

A few months ago, I realized that the Presidential campaign had infected everyone with an epidemic of negativity changing the daily focus onto what separates us as Americans. Had we forgotten what really matters?

Nostalgia bloomed for the days following the September 11 attacks when we were not individuals, but Americans united in our grief. Neighbors, strangers, black or white we stood together. We helped each other. We cared for each other.  We set aside differences ready to fight against a common (though mostly invisible) enemy.

As friends hotly debated politics during this summer’s picnics, I actually hoped something could bring us together again, and in November that something came to pass. Unfortunately, it was not the election of the first female President of the United States.

Is it fair to equate the 2016 election results with the events of September 11? Definitely not, but the fear is back, and it is as tangible as it was fifteen years ago. Also, for the first time since the closing months of 2001, I see a large percentage of Americans unified, driven, focused, motivated and taking action not for their own personal gain, but to protect and benefit their fellow Americans.

Our enemies have crawled out of the gutter to show their faces this time. They are not in some distant land, nor are they rumored, imagined, or invisible. They are here in our own streets, and there is a long battle to be fought ahead, but groups like #PantsuitNation provide a positive platform to foster enlightenment, a renaissance for unity in America. We are ready to take the hand of the monster and lead it into the light.

 

 

 

Safe Passage

Two days on I-95 north and desperate for the end.

The last of my drive would be the most difficult to wend.

Normal safe passage: Garden State to Tappan Zee, but

Throwing caution to the wind, I drove on to Fort Lee.

Potholes, honking horns, upper or lower? and toll fees,

All obstacles to crossing the Hudson on the GWB.

Rumored the busiest bridge in the world,

Maddow claims here political payback unfurled.

We may never know unless they find a snitch,

and even though I made it over without a hitch,

and enjoyed seeing the skyscrapers of NYC,

Next time, I’ll return to the Tappan Zee.