Bob Schwartz

I get the news I need from the weather report.
Paul Simon, The Only Living Boy in New York.

When my dearest wakes up, she sometimes asks, “Has he broken the world yet?”

Most mornings, I can’t answer. Because most mornings, I avoid the news as long as possible. Not just because it is likely to include some outrageous, if not globally existential, story. Because it is not an improvement on the new day that has begun, with possibilities admittedly ranging from the excellent to the challenging. Sunny, cloudy, stormy.

Sometime after the preliminaries, the news will creep in or barge in. Some of it will matter, some of it will be an invitation to silly diversion or to demonstrate shallow or deep cleverness, including schemes to make things better.

Boker or. Morning of light. Again.