A lousy post.

I've found it hard to write this morning.

It could be that I've been juggling the demands of two separate full-time freelance assignments for about a month now, and the seven-day-a-week 16-hour days have finally gotten to me.

Or it could be that I'm out of stories, for now, of my sojourn almost four decades ago to Saltillo, Mexico and the Mexican Baseball League. And with Hector Quesadillo, my manager and 'father-figure' from back then finally dead and buried, well my memory pool is drying at the edges.

I also haven't tripped up to the Tempus Fugit, my favorite bar. Or the Whore of Babylon, my second favorite. Those places are always good for a tale, or a joke, or something to think about.

Finally, I haven't gotten an infusion of Borscht from Uncle Slappy for more than a month. He's down in Boca and loathe to come up to New York, where a mountain ram could slip off the sidewalk and into the M-79. You can be laid flat, run over and squished and no one would know it till the ice melts in June or August or some time. That is, if it ever melts.

So, I am fallow this morning. 

My prodigious fingers are barren.

If something comes up, I'll try to write.

But for now, have a nice weekend.

And don't believe everything you read.