So there I was, hanging off the side of an ancient Indian cliff dwelling at New Mexico’s Bandolier National Monument, praying I wouldn’t slip and fall to a hideous death, when my cell phone started ringing. I couldn’t believe my ears. The phone’s obnoxious trill was so unnatural, so out of place in this ancient, spiritual location. It was like playing a kazoo at midnight mass. I hardly use the damn thing and someone’s calling me now —of all times—when I’m inches away from becoming the lead story on the 11 o’clock news? (Assuming it was a slow news day.) “Someday I’ll laugh at this,” I muttered into the rungs of the wooden ladder that were the only thing between me and oblivion. Normally I can’t resist a ringing phone. Even in my most misanthropic moments—and I’ve had quite a few of those—I have a Pavlovian drive to answer a telephone’s siren call. I just have to know who is on the other end of the line. However, on this day, that phone could have rung, whistled, howled, or sung the ove
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Gun Violence Sought Against Bay Ridge Rover Blogger?
It's cowardice, plain and simple.