Against doctor’s orders I’m sneaking a quick howdy to my dear friends. After half a box of cheap wine, my wrist says, “Go for it, baby.”
So, Howdy! (We tip our ten gallons and say “howdy” here in the southwest.)
It’s cooled all the way to 60 degrees in Phoenix, a bit lower at night. Please don’t hate me. I know everyone else is suffering under frozen skies and icy grounds. Not here. Nope. We’re playing golf (at least those of us with good wrists) and we’re hiking the hills (at least those of us who haven’t recently broken their legs) and we’re shopping (now we’re talking my language!)
I hope Santa is good to you all. I’m asking for a new wrist so I can write again. I’ll bet Poe never had a bad wrist. Or Shakespeare. Of course, then there’s Finkelstein. Oh, never heard of Finkelstein? Well, he had a bad wrist. Poor old Finkelstein.