Look Out Now

The Affordable Care Act or Obamacare (always said with a sneer in your voice) is making news all over the place. The issue even made its way to the Supreme Court and yet folk won't keep going on about how terrible it is - even though it has not happened. There are experts telling us that it will save money and other experts telling us that it will leave us broke. There are people declaring that almost every doctor in America will quit but this report is based on the nearly 700 (out of 36,000) doctors who actually responded to the fax. This in a nation of over half a million doctors. But I digress.

So when asked about what he was going to do, the senate minority leader who, if you ask me, looks a lot like Angela Lansbury (but is not) declared that their goal is not to ensure that 30 million uninsured people have health care coverage but instead, their goal is to improve the health care system. This health care system, he said, is already the best in the world but they want to make it even better. But not just make it better, make it better while reducing costs and increasing individual liberty. I had no idea that health care was about individual liberty, but there you go. Did I mention that this guy and his coworkers have access to some pretty awesome health care benefits? Nothing but the best for them!

My lesson continued. Word is that spreading the health care coverage is going to cost the currently insured even more because they are going to have to pay for the uninsured. And yet, I thought this was already the case because when the uninsured go to hospital emergency rooms, they can't be turned away and, when they can't pay, the hospital has to find someone who will. My money was always on the insured but it may have been a health fairy all along and this health fairy will go on strike if more people have more equitable access to health care.

And this is how it makes sense for how else can people know that they are special? So we must, we must make the best health care even better and make it so those 30 million uninsured feel even worse about themselves for not being able to afford it. It is obviously something they must have done to not be able to have access to the best (getting even better). They obviously don't deserve to live and, if they try to, they should just feel as crummy as possible about it.

Just In Case You Were Lost

I went to a football match a while ago where the United States played against Argentina. Often during the game, the chant would rise up through the stands, "USA! USA!" I also went to watch the United States play against Brazil and again that chant was almost deafening, "USA! USA!" It mostly made sense - I thought it would be nice to have a song that folk could sing but the chant worked.

Then Osama bin Laden was killed and people gathered somewhere in the city and the chant came again, "USA! USA!" It seemed odd that a chant that was great for a sporting event was also suitable for the announcement of the death of a tyrant, and yet, apparently, it was.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I was watching the Yankees playing baseball, aka America's pastime and the crowd broke into this chant, "USA! USA!" I was confused because the American baseball league is very American. Though they hold a "World Series", it appears that the invitations get lost in the mail because only the American teams show up. I mean there are two leagues, the American League and the National League, but both refer to the United States of America. So, what was going on? Why was the crowd chanting?

Ah! They were playing the Toronto Blue Jays, the only team in the entire league that is based outside the United States and even then, it is barely outside and I doubt they come to games as representatives of Canada. Was this really necessary? "Let's go Yankees didn't cut it, all of a sudden?" I mean it is pro-sport, not a contest pitting nations against each other.

No matter, last Sunday I headed out to Yankee Stadium to watch a football match. Chelsea was playing an exhibition game against Paris Saint Germain. It was exciting and, as I stood outside the stadium, many fans passed by singing the team songs and I smiled. I said to Hidef, "this is great! No chance of people chanting 'USA'. America is not playing today."

Of course I jinxed it. Halfway through the first half, in the stands to the right of me, a group of fans (and I used that word very loosely) broke out in the chant, "USA! USA!" WHAT? WHY?HOW?
My brain was about to malfunction and crash when those around me booed the chanters and someone said the obvious, "You know no one from the USA is playing today."
That shut them up. But I think they were confused. You should have seen their pathetic attempt at the wave.

I'm Melting! I'm Melting!

I was so tired that sitting or lying down was not enough; I needed to just dissolve into the bed. I needed to become one with the bed. I was beyond exhausted.

Yesterday was my first day back at work, after a 6 week break that included stomach surgery. Yesterday was also a Monday. I could have done with another hour of sleep but I got out of bed when the alarm went off and started getting ready for the day. Despite my plans, when I left home I was running about ten minutes late. I walked into my office to find that my carpet had been cleaned and, as a result, the fuse in the wall sockets had blown. My office had no power - I could not use my computer. I decided that this was divine intervention making sure that I could ease into my first day back. However, my coworker felt differently and rustled up a laptop and empty office for me.

The office was windowless and airless and happens to be the office that, rumour says, I am to be moved to in the near future. It is half the size of the windowed office that I share right now and yet I am supposed to continue sharing an office... but I digress. I go into this office and start up the laptop. The laptop goes rogue and, as I am trying to set this up, starts up every five minutes. I also try to connect a mouse to this rogue laptop (in between the regular power downs and power ups) and the mouse won't work. All I get is frustrated for about an hour before the fuse issue is resolved and I head back to my desk.

At this point, my body was achy from being more physical than it has been in a while, but I soldiered on. I got to noon before two members of my staff got into an argument. It seems that they skipped the childhood lessons on sharing. After 20 minutes of their bickering I just wanted to moan, while holding my head, "can't we just all get along?"

At half past three I crashed. It was not pretty. I tried to tell my body that it had to get through only another hour and a half but my body's argument was that it had given me six and a half hours, why was I being so demanding. I can't tell you how I got through that hour and a half - it is all a painful haze - but finally it was home time.

I got into the train and sat down. I looked up and saw my reflection. I mean, it looked like a man in clothing that I didn't recognise, but that exhausted, semi-comatose state was mine. I was DONE!!

The Times They are a'Changing

Last night I went to visit a friend and while we were there, a guest at her party pressed a card into my hand. "My daughter's birthday party is next Saturday, I hope you can make it." I looked down and was mesmerised by the glossy image above. I thought to myself, "Children's parties sure have changed since I was a kid."

Idol Time

While we are talking about mysteries, I remember one about my own life. For a year in high school, I played in a badminton league. When I was a kid, my parents were avid tennis players so they insisted that all their children learn to play. Until he passed away, my father would remind me how disappointed he was when I gave up my tennis lessons. "You had a talent, Pandave, the coach said so." Perhaps the coach saw something that I never did - I just know that my serve was atrocious.

I went through a phase when I took up squash. Serving the ball was less challenging and the game was more dynamic. I loved whacking the little ball into the wall and running madly about the court, working up a sweat. The big mystery is how badminton came into play. Did we have to play it during gym class? Did I read about it in a novel and decide to emulate the heroine? Whatever happened, I ended up knowing how to play badminton. And then I ended up in a team.

The team was made up of three girls from my high school (I was one of them) and three boys from a nearby boys' school. None of us were friends before we started playing, so I have no idea how we three were picked. We called our team Mony Mony, played mixed doubles and travelled around town, playing in a league. Did a teacher at school set up the league and, if so, why? It couldn't be that the school was trying to promote badminton because no one from school ever came to watch us play. Did I mention that we were the youngest people in this league? By far? We were pretty much going to various recreation centres around town and playing mostly retirees (occasionally we would play against people who were our parents' age). Badminton was not a cool sport to play, which may be why we were the only kids playing in this league.

There are people who write about the crazy periods in their lives when they went on drug or alcohol-fueled benders. My bender involved a racquet and a shuttlecock. I don't know how it began and I have idea how it ended. I do know that Billy Idol was a part of it and I wore a lot of little skirts.

Coming Clean

There is a show that used to be on HBO called "Taxicab Confessions". In it, people would get into a cab and proceed to share their deepest and, sometimes, darkest, secrets with the stranger who was driving them to their destination. Today, I shall slide into this booth here - a surviving peepshow booth from the red-light-district Times Square of yesteryear - and I shall make my New York Confessions. I am going to come clean:

• For ages, I believed that the subway stop "Astor Place" was where the neighbourhood of Astoria is. It turns out that Astor Place is in Manhattan and Astoria is in Queens. The train that runs to Astor Place goes nowhere near Astoria.
• I have lived in New York for over 10 years and taken the subway since I got here. I found out, only two years ago, that the entrance to downtown trains is always on the west side of the street. I was with Hidef and wondering why he always knew which entrance to use in order to get on a train (I always guessed and mostly got it incorrect). He looked at me and said, "the downtown train is always on the west side of the street." I asked how he knew and he said, "I don't know; everyone knows." Not everyone.
• I lived in New York City, in Brooklyn, for years before I realised that Brooklyn and Queens are located on Long Island. How was I to know? I mean, no one who lives in Brooklyn or Queens ever says that they live in Long Island. Also, when you go to other Long Island towns they just feel like another country. Also on Long Island? The Hamptons.
• I have lived in the same neighbourhood, in Brooklyn, since 2001 and I still am not sure exactly how to direct a cabby exactly how to get home. Over the years, I have learnt how to fake the funk by throwing in phrases like "take Atlantic Avenue" and "if traffic is heavy we can try Eastern Parkway" so it sounds as though I know what I'm talking about. In this way the cabbies does not realise that if they ask me about taking the Van Wyck, I will get the deer-in-the-headlights look and start wondering what I need to say to make sure they don't take me on the expensive scenic route.

Oh my! Exhale! That was cleansing. Yes, I am a New Yorker and there are still mysteries in the city.

Why? Convict, that's why.

Why did I go to the Department of Motor Vehicles? That is a very good question. All I needed to do was renew my driver's licence and change my address. These are tasks that I could have completed online. But I had to go into the DMV and do this in person.

Why in person, you may be wondering. Well, I shall tell you why. When I first moved to New York City, way back in 2000 (dogs probably had horns back then, my memory is hazy) I got a driver's licence and it was wonderful. I was actually sad that I didn't get to use it often because I looked quite lovely on my licence. I had spent the nineties with a series of unfortunate identification documents. On my first licence, I naively thought that hairstyles that were popular in the eighties would be timeless. I regretted that decision before I had turned 18 but I was stuck with that photo. Through college and beyond, I just could not find a camera that liked me. However, I took comfort in the knowledge that one was not meant to look decent in an ID photo - just kinda sorta like oneself.

Then I moved to New York and got my driver's licence. I could not believe my eyes; I looked great. It wasn't just me - I would present my licence as I entered bars and the bouncer would compliment me on my lovely photo. I would be all, "I know! I am so happy to be carded!" Those were glorious days.

Alas, all too soon, the days came to an end. I headed back into the DMV to renew my licence. The DMV was updating its operations then and switching to digital photography. I don't know if the man who helped me was intimidated by the new equipment or just did not know how to take a photo but the licence that arrived in the mail was the scariest piece of mail I have ever received. How bad? Well, if that photo had arrived with a ransom note, I would have told the kidnappers to do what they would as the monstrosity in the picture could not possibly want to live. Man, oh man, what a terrible picture. So my driver's licence was relegated to the depths of my wallet and is only brought out under extreme duress. I kept it away from friends and family and, mostly, me.

Despite my feelings about the DMV, I knew I had to go in and give this camera thing another try. I decided to try Brooklyn because I thought it could not possibly be as insane as Manhattan. As I have told you, I was quite mistaken. Did I mention that I ended up sitting next to a grown man who was sucking his thumb. I hesitated before I sat down as the thought flashed through my head, "if anything goes down in this place, what are the chances that it will start here?"

That photo better be worth it.

S.O.S!

I find myself at the DMV, ostensibly to renew my driver's licence but, now that I am here, I know this place has more malicious motives. Some evil power forces people to come to this place in order to crush our souls and make us lose our minds.

You enter the space and join the longest line you have ever seen. You join it, not because any signs instruct you to do so but because anyone who is standing appears to be in this lone. You try to ignore the woman who is yelling about how standing in this line to nowhere is going to take up half your day. A woman's voice comes over the announcement system with instructions that you hope apply to you and that you can understand. You have to get it right because, if you don't and you leave the line for the wrong reason, you may find yourself at the back of the long line to nowhere.

Finally, you get to the front of the line and realise that this line to get your number for service. Now you get to take a seat while you wait for service. Yes, you waited in line so you could get to wait some more on a bench, watching a screen, for when you number comes up.

Will they help you then? Will your lost mind even know? Will your crushed soul even care?

Not Before My Coffee Please

A few months ago, I was heading into work, as I tend to do most Tuesday mornings. I had ridden the train without incident (probably because I slept almost all the way) and I was now walking up the stairs that run from the subway platform to maze of corridors that runs under the Rockefeller Centre. As I looked up, in a haze of non-caffeinated sleepiness, I saw something unexpected. A butt crack and a heck of a lot of it. Had I been standing behind someone bending down to pick up something, I would not have been surprised - sometimes when bending over, clothes do not act as they should. But, this extensive butt crack belonged to an erect body that was casually walking up stairs. This was no inadvertent plumber's crack. This was more like - I bought a pair of jeans that only comes halfway up my hips because I want the world to share the love of my body.

As I walked behind this woman, who was not even wearing the long tops that women wear (and spend the day pulling down) when they know that they are wearing pants that tend to fall down and expose their behind, I wondered what, if anything, I should do. I was torn - should I say something or did her cavalier attitude mean that this is how she wanted to look? If no one else was reacting, did this mean that I had missed yet another fashion trend? Was this like a skirt stuck in underwear or more like someone trying to be the next Lady Gaga?

Gah! I couldn't! (she got further away from me) How was I supposed to think before 9am? (I would have to yell or run to get her attention) Without any caffeine? (now she had disappeared into the crowd) Doesn't the world know yet that I'm not a morning person?

Making It Up

I love plants but they just don't love me back. As I child I was conned by my green-thumbed mother. She would line all the windowsills in the the kitchen and dining room with little yoghurt cups. Into each of these yoghurt cups she would put water and a leaf. In weeks the leaves would start sprouting roots and then she would transfer these rooted leaves into cups of dirt. Out of these dirt-filled cups would sprout real plants which would then flower. From a leaf to a flower without breaking a sweat. Often, as she headed to work, she would take one, or several, of these plants to hand over to a coworker. She made it look so easy that I thought there was nothing to it.

Silly me, I never wondered why she needed to take the plants in to work to give to other people if making them grow was so easy. A disastrous experience with high school biology put me off learning anything about plants and yet, having grown up surrounded by green life, I feel incomplete (dare I say, half alive) without greenery around me. And yet I live in New York City. Is that what one could call irony?

My first encounters with rearing plants ended in pots of soil, haunted by the plant that had lived a very short life in the pot. I tried the things that I had read - fertilizer, moving the plant around the apartment to try different lighting situations, varying the watering schedule - but to no avail. The plants just died. Finally, I resorted to begging and that has given me some success. I adopt them, like they are my children, I try to give them pretty names (mostly because my biology rebellion has led me to not know what anything's official name is) and I try to make my love keep them alive.

I still have my little fire that I got back in 2006, on a visit to the Bronx Zoo. All I can say is that, at times when the plant was struggling and barely a leaf in the pot and the only thing that brought her back from the edge was my singing and desperate entreaties for her to just hold on a little longer. She must like something about me because she has stuck around and she has convinced others to stick around with me.

But let me tell you about when my mother came to visit. She would putter around my green space, aka the corner in my apartment where plants don't die, and, by the time she left a month later, my plants were the most robust they have ever been. I mean, I have never seen so much green in my space. Not only that, one plant was growing out of its pot and she took leaves from the plant and replanted them in another pot. Over a year later, those leaves are still a plant. After she left, I tried the same thing and those leaves were dead within a fortnight.

I have asked how she does it and she shrugs as though it's nothing. She looks at a plant and it blooms. I look over and the plant smells my fear.

You're Still There?

The other day I went to the store down the street to buy a loaf of bread. I like to buy bread that has been baked using only wheat, water, yeast and a little salt - you know the classic bread ingredients. I am not interested in "enriched" bread or bread that is modified so that it will last for 6 weeks, in the summer heat, without any mould. I mean, really, do I want to eat what mould won't dare go near?

The challenge though, with preservative-free bread, is that one has to be sure that the bread is as fresh as possible going in. Crazy as it seems, the bread with the least ingredients is the bread that costs the most and, after paying all that money, it is rather painful to get home and discover that the mould got to the bread first. In this summer humidity, the risk of this is quite high.

So, I went into the store and picked up a bag of bread. I could not find a date on it so, at the checkout counter I said to the checkout lady, "I couldn't find a date on the bread, do you know if it was baked today?"
Lady:"Yes, it is sliced."
Me: "I don't mind about that, I just wanted to be sure that it was baked today."
Lady:"Most of our customers like to buy the bread already sliced so we slice it for them."
Me:"Yes, but I am trying so find out if I can find a date for when it was baked."
Lady: "We have bread that has not been sliced if that is what you want but our customers like the bead sliced."
Me: "Oh, okay, thank you."

I picked up the bread and left quickly. My brain was sending panic signals; there was not much more it could take. How many more times can it be in a place that just doesn't make sense? I'm guessing, there is only so much I can put it through before it calls it quits.

Brooklyn, We Go Hard!

 

It was quite the journey to get to this point - the point where I ran the Brooklyn Half Marathon, back in May. I travelled back in time, through my archives to the first time I didn't run in Miami. Many things have changed and a lot has remained the same. I had a day when I had a post race photo that was not a nightmare to behold. It is funny because it is one of the most difficult races I have ever run (the hills of San Francisco will do that to you) and yet somehow the photos make me look as though I was having the best time ever.

I was very excited about running the Brooklyn Half - Brooklyn is where I live and Brooklyn is where I love. I wanted to run it last year but found myself in hospital, with a tube up my nose, during the race registration. I came out to find that the race was full and I was going to miss it. This year, I checked the website like I had OCD and, I was not alone. Once the race opened, the website crashed often because it was overwhelmed by the masses that tried to register for the race. Apparently there are many who opt to experience Brooklyn through blood, sweat and tears.

As I mentioned, there are things that have changed and things that have remained the same:

1. 13.1 miles is still a long way to run. Heck, 5 kilometres is a long way to run. Whether I run 100 metres or 13.1 miles I am exhausted at the end of it. How does that make sense?
2. It doesn't matter how many porta-potties there are, they will always come with super long lines and will always gross me out. I mean, seriously, who thought it would be smart to put the urinal right where your face goes if you need to use the toilet?
3. I ALWAYS need to pee before a race. It doesn't matter how many times I go before I leave home, I need to go just before the race starts. Sometimes more than once. It is probably because the gods know how much I hate the porta-potties and they need a good early morning laugh.
4.  My knees are more amenable about running. Thank you knees. On the other hand, my hips and feet are considering a mutiny.
5. Post race cocktails rock. Did I ever tell you about the beer I got as I crossed the finish line at the Chicago Marathon? Best idea ever, race planners, and an idea that needs to make the rounds.
6. I still have not run New York and now, due to the adventures with a scalpel that happened in my belly in June, it is very likely that I will not get to run New York this year. I am still trying to come to terms with that. Yes, I am trying to come to terms with the fact that I won't get to struggle while running 26.2 hilly miles. What is wrong with me?
7. It doesn't matter how much skin you cover with bodyglide, chafing will still find a way to make an appearance. Between your toes, right where your bra goes or under your arms, it will find that one spot that you missed.
8. As unexciting as talking about running seems, even while you are doing it, you will find yourself doing it. 
9. I love to run when I travel. I make it a point to get out and go for a run whenever I am some place new. I am going slowly enough that I can see things and yet quickly enough that I get to cover a decent amount of ground.
10. It doesn't happen all the time but, sometimes, I have a moment when everything is right - my stride feels good, whatever is playing on my iPod is lifting my spirits, the weather is perfect, the air is being kind to my lungs and the scenery is engaging. It is the best feeling ever and, anyone who sees me at that moment must think either that running is amazing or that I must be insane. Well, the nervous smiles they give me implies "insane".

It was a beautiful and sunny day, the kind of day that is perfect for a picnic and can be a killer for running. But no matter, we were running Brooklyn (even as I type I yell Brooklyn! in my head)! It was beautiful. It was awesome. To be able to run down streets that are normally congested with people rushing nowhere is a feeling I am yet to tire of. To run through the various neighbourhoods and have the people I live with out cheering me on is heartwarming. To finish on the Coney Island boardwalk, with the Atlantic Ocean stretching out into infinity is something I want to do again. Oh yes, and I managed to run my fastest time ever and, if you are going to do that, isn't it best to do it at home? So, yes Brooklyn, I did go hard. But I am also glad I have a year to psych myself up for this again.

Faux Ne M'Inquiete Pas

The other day, as I made my way to work in my belted dress, I realised that I have changed quite a bit in 15 years, maybe longer.
15 years ago I would have steered clear of belts as they would merely highlight how high-waisted I am and I would be afraid of looking as though my belt was trying to help hold my boobs up. 15 years ago.
15 years ago, heck 5 years ago, I did not wear shorts. The reason for this was that I felt that shorts did not do my chicken legs any favours. Because they split my legs, people would be able to judge my legs separately and realise that they were not as substantial as they appeared in a skirt.
15 years ago, the plan, when getting dressed, was to minimise my flaws. Stay away from anything that makes me look like the short-waisted, skinny-legged, flat-butted (did I mention my dorky stick-like ankles?) person that I am. That was my strategy - a strategy supported by women's magazines that appear to be geared to make every body type a liability.

Now I find, more and more, I see something and I think - isn't that lovely, let me try it on. I put it on and think - to hell with the rules, I am going to make this work. It's great because I live for the day when I become someone who makes it into one of Dodo's blog posts.
Look out red lipstick, mismatched clothing and outrageous hair, here I come! And I'm loving it all!!

Zoocosis!

My daily commute involves rushing up and down stairways that are never wide enough and then crowding into a train car that is always too hot (and stinky) or too cold. On lucky days I get a seat but what is guaranteed is that I and my fellow commuters are too close together. It does not make for polite society.

At times the train jerks to a stop and, after a few moments, the train's intercom crackles to life. On the rare occasions that one can actually make out the words said by the conductor (do they do that on purpose?) one gets a message that must have been scripted by someone who lives in a civil society where each person has at least a square mile of personal space. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have been delayed but will be moving shortly. Thank you for your patience." Patience? Where are we? Not even in the movies are New Yorkers on a train patient. People are busy trying not to kick, bite or punch that person who is digging their elbow into them or that kid that is kicking them in the thigh. There is that standing person who is leaning their butt into your seated face. Oh someone just spilt illegal coffee on someone else and now an argument is going on and it's not even 9 am.

It would make more sense to beg - please try not to maul each other. Finally, after years of this, an actual subway rider got a hold of the message and made a change. Now we get, "we apologise for any inconvenience caused." Of course they don't mean that - if they did we would get a more spacious commute - but at least we are being given free rein to pinch that kicking kid.

Huh? What?

I ended up spending seven nights in hospital and, during that time, I managed to work my way through a lot of reading material. This is how the reading material worked. When I prepared to go to the hospital, I packed my New Yorker magazines, a book about a programme to introduce black students to Holy Cross University, back in the '60s and other reading material that involved long paragraphs and marmalade words.

I woke up from surgery to find myself connected to an IV that supplied me with an on demand stream of pain medication. The morning following my surgery, I reached for a New Yorker and found that the words would not stay still on the page and that, after staring at the page for about ten minutes, I was still on the first sentence of a story and that sentence made no sense.  It was then that I realised that the pain medication also rendered my brain rather diminished. I had lost the ability to even pretend to be deep. Lucky for me, I have friends who had foreseen my diminished state. They arrived with piles of celebrity rags - full of pictures and very few and very short words. I was able to spend my days sitting in a chair, bathed in sunlight from the massive window in my room, paging through magazine after magazine. I was asked to wonder "who wore it best" and challenged to "get that bikini bod" even though I do not have millions of dollars and trainers at my beck and call. Even with my half functioning brain, I was sure that my brain got even smaller.

During the week I was sitting around, it was two days before I was even allowed to drink a sip of water. I then spent another three days being given only clear liquids to consume. Toward the end of my stay I graduated to mashed potato and dry grilled fish (party time!). It was not so terrible as pain in my stomach kept my appetite at bay. I was also staying in a ward for people with stomach issues so there was very little food going around and none of it was appetising.

Half way through my stay I received a visitor. She sat down to chat and said, "I brought you something to read," and pulled out a magazine. I looked at the cover "FOOD & WINE". How did that happen? Was she walking around the bookstore wondering - hmmm... what do you give the person who cannot eat or drink most things? Oh, I know, the dream of food. Show her the life she cannot have. I mean, she has been paging through a bunch of magazines where people are in dresses that cost her annual salary so this is along the same lines, right? Right?

Pass Me the Fruit... Juice

My path to greatness and eating more real food involves a whole lot of walking and a whole lot of walking ends up involving coming across a lot of strangers. I also come across way more than my share of dog poop and pee and find myself wondering which season is worse for dog poop. Is it summer, when it hangs out, steaming and and stinking up the block, or is it winter, when you have no idea it is under the snow until your foot is right in the middle of it? It is a question I have not yet answered.

Today, as I walked along the street I watched the traffic light turning from amber to red and then heard a car honking loudly. I looked to my left to see a yellow cab speeding toward and then right through the intersection, yep, right past the red light.

My lesson for today: apparently it is okay if you break the rules of the road, as long as you honk loud and long first.