Today’s writing weather: Who knows?

Two nights ago, one of my adult children tossed my phone to the other, and it hit the wall and broke in two. Okay, no biggie. Except Peapod was scheduled to bring groceries in the morning, and when they get here, first I have to buzz them in the parking gate, and then the building lobby—with my phone. So after a short night’s sleep—the Bigs had taken Little out to see the late show of King Kong, so the early morning struggle to school was even gorier than usual—I had to hang around our parking lot for several hours, watching for the grocery truck, to let it in. Then by the time the Bigs headed back to New York, Little and his own crew were back from school, so the biggest writing window of the day turned out to be the two hours I spent typing with frozen fingers in the parking lot: a long screed by the Trump persona about having thrown his soul out with the baby in the bathwater….

“Wrong!” asserts Trump.

“Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.”

So no predictions today. The sun is out, my youngest at school, and my dear wife still asleep. Run with it, see how far I get…

Tom Riordan lives in New Jersey. He’s a retired restaurant worker and teacher, and dreams about becoming pope for his next career.

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