Your place. What an odd way to refer to the White House.

My windshield wipers have packed it in for the night, making it difficult to determine exactly where the visitor’s-entrance checkpoint is. I roll to a sudden stop as a heavily armed guard and a man in a black suit step in front of my car.

The sight of metal detectors and dogs reminds me that I am carrying one half of a marijuana cigarette in my Camel Lights pack.

Just... wow...