Nothing says "Spring" to me more than a pit bull and a baby carriage.
I am in full-on Spring Fever. It is not pleasant. It is not comfortable. My muscles tense. My jaws tense. I am often ready to blow.
The creeks are flowing, the sap is rising. There is a familiar smell upon the air.
Last night I cracked. I went to the gym, but in the locker room I discovered that I had not put my gym shorts in my bag. I went home and opened a bottle of wine. Later, I opened the second one.
And there was chocolate cake.
And while thy willing soul conspires,
At every pour with instant fires. . . .
Thank God for The Church. They have ways of dealing with such things. It is time, I think, to bring back the Inquisition, for I know Spring Fever will give way to a Summer Madness. The Old Vice begins to squeeze.
Oh, yes, I remember now. . . there was whiskey, too, while I sat and listened to ten or twelve versions of Lake Street Dive's "You Go Down Smooth."
Go to YouTube and watch some of the hundred live versions. Then watch some of their wonderful covers.
Later I manically played it on my guitar and sang it with only partial lyrics. It was like howling at the moon.
Whatever gets you through the night.
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