Postcard From the Hustle

Some powerful pieces are coming down the pike. I need your support to get them to you.

At midnight I found myself outside Grady’s emergency room, chatting with some EMTs. Writer’s block left me smoked like a salmon. I can’t drink through it like a respectable journalist — liquor sets off the gout — and I needed inspiration.

Everything seems like I’m staring at the edge of hell. I can smell the sulfur.

I’ve used Grady’s ER wait time as a so…