Empty.

I've been delayed this morning.

I faced the blank Ad Aged page first at 7:15 and tried to write something. But I had no clear idea. I thought I had something, but it evaporated when my wife came back from walking Whiskey and Whiskey galloped in my direction and demanded I pet rather than write.

Then I arrived at work a bit late. The C-Train--always slow, always infrequent, and always jammed--was worse than usual. People are already blaming DeBlasio, though he doesn't start his mayoralty for another six or seven weeks.

I again faced the blank Ad Aged page but nothing came.

As you may or may not know, I try to write every day. I figure if a journalist can do it, I can do it--no slight to journalists intended. It's just that there's always something to see, or say, or comment upon.

That said, some days are harder than others.

That's why I write about my Uncle Slappy or the Tempus Fugit or even my nocturnal ambulations through New York.

Writing for me is a force that gives my life meaning.

I realize of course, that writing gives my life meaning. I define myself as a writer. I've been published twice in my life, once in Adweek, once in a magazine called Runner's World and I've written two novels, both unpublished.

But the paucity of my output does not mitigate my self-identification as a writer.

I'm sorry this post sucks.

I had nothing to write about today.