The Don of gridlock
Being stuck is one of life’s great democratic experiences.
It doesn’t matter who you voted for, or how much money you make. Eventually everybody winds up sitting in traffic staring at the same brake lights wondering if the people in front of them have simply decided to live there.
The very rich don’t understand this because they don’t experience it.
They fly over traffic in helicopters on their way to private airports where they board private jets headed for yachts so enormous they require smaller yachts to carry the jet skis, the staff, and whatever it is billionaires apparently need to survive a weekend.
The rest of us wait.
Usually without resentment.
Eventually you’ll get where you’re going because eventually everybody does.
In these moments, I’m reminded of the Serenity Prayer:
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
Yesterday, I discovered there should probably be a fourth line:
…and the patience not to lose my mind while sitting behind 800 transport trucks outside Windsor.
Yesterday, I got stuck on a bridge.
Well… technically after the bridge.
Actually, that’s not right either.
I was stuck because of another bridge.
A brand-new bridge.
A spectacular bridge.
An empty bridge.
A bridge that’s finished.
A bridge that everyone can see.
A bridge that nobody is allowed to use.
As someone born in New Jersey, I’ve always believed bridges deserve respect.
Without them we’d still be in New Jersey.
Nobody wants that.
There I was with my wife, just north of the Ambassador Bridge, looking at the magnificent Gordie Howe International Bridge sitting empty under a perfect blue sky, while every truck carrying every conceivable product known to civilization crawled bumper-to-bumper across the old crossing.
We listened to music.
We talked.
We responded to texts (via Siri).
We watched dogs hang their heads out of windows.
We watched children invent new games.
I saw a cat looking annoyed, which, admittedly, narrowed it down to “a cat.”
And nobody moved.
Not an inch.
It was oddly peaceful.
Until I looked over at the empty bridge.
Then a question occurred to me: are we really stuck? Or, were we being held hostage?
I looked around.
There were Canadians.
Americans.
Black families.
White families.
Old couples.
Young couples.
Truck drivers.
Construction workers.
Business executives.
Kids.
Dogs.
One deeply judgmental cat.
The pollsters insist these people have nothing in common.
Legacy media says we’re hopelessly divided.
Funny.
We all looked exactly alike sitting in traffic.
Everyone wanted exactly the same thing — to get to where they needed to be.
So who was holding us hostage?
Not fate.
Not God.
Politics.
Corruption.
Mike Levin summarized the issue perfectly:
You can also read about it in this New York Times article.
So permit me a brief return to my native language.
Donald Trump…F*ck you.
Not metaphorically.
Not performatively.
Not for effect.
I mean it with every ounce of New Jersey sincerity I possess.
There’s a difference.
In New Jersey “f*ck you” can mean hello.
It can mean goodbye.
It can mean congratulations.
It can mean “I love you.”
It can mean “have a safe trip.”
This one means exactly what you think it means because, while ordinary people sat in traffic watching commerce grind to a halt, Donald Trump was having another excellent day.
Another luxury jet. Another grift. Another gift.
Another monument to corruption stacked atop the tallest pile of political manure ever assembled in American history.
He seems to believe he’ll still own that airplane after noon on January 20, 2029.
He won’t.
At precisely noon that day, it becomes government property again.
Donald Trump will leave Washington exactly as he entered it.
Not as a king.
Not as an emperor.
Not as history’s great man.
Just another disgraced former president flying home.
And somewhere — hopefully not in traffic — I will smile.
I’ll think about that beautiful empty bridge.
I’ll remember the trucks.
The families.
The dog.
The cat.
The Canadians.
The Americans.
The reminder that ordinary people actually get along just fine until corruption gets in their way.
Then I’ll do something profoundly New Jersey.
I’ll raise both middle fingers toward Mar-a-Lago.
And with genuine warmth…I’ll say exactly what I mean.
F*ck you, Donald Trump.
Oh, and I also want to call upon Chris Christie — wherever he may be — to offer an act of repentance for supporting Donald Trump, and doing all the bad things he did, by declaring from the edge of the Canadian frontier, “Mister Trump, open this bridge.”
And if he’s feeling generous, perhaps deliver a message from me too, which would be, “F*ck you.”
A great column! One of your best because it expresses the sentiments and anger of those of us who DO know the difference between shit and shinola.
We all know Trump only cares about money and power. He has no empathy or concern for the American people. Unless we are billionaire doners we are all suckers and losers.