Here's my entry

I made a deal with my son. If he writes every day, so will I. Wellll, he wasn't for the longest time, but suddenly took the offer a couple of nights ago, inspired by "Diary of a Wimpy Kid." I've gotta say, he's doing a great job, and even adds original cartoons to the mix. Last night, upon realizing he hadn't seen me doing any writing, he said, "I'M doing MY diary but I don't see you writing anything. Remember? You made a deal with me."

Smartass.

Still, he's a right smartass, so here I go.

I had a great post all set months ago about Marina Del Rey and Venice, where I go several times a year to see in-laws. I just couldn't get it right, so I bagged it. Every time I read the thing it seemed stale and obvious. I tried different angles, and nothing rose to the top. It's a peculiar, dark place. It runs on fear of indifference, and fear of nothingness. Human husks, like shedded spider skins are blown along and seem to gather on Venice Beach, one of our great public scumpits.

Who cares? My son has discovered that he likes to write. Who gives a damn about Venice Beach?