"The sun was beatin' down on my baseball hat / there air was gettin' hot, the beer was gettin' flat."

It's unofficial springtime here in west-central Oregon. The Weatherbug doodad in my system try says it's 62 degrees, but having just walked to and from the Evil Coffee Imperialist Emporium, I can testify that it feels more like 75 out there. Hot sun. No breeze. Brilliant blue skies. Cherry trees blossoming and the white ones that aren't cherry trees, but otherwise are just like them. They're blossoming too.

So for me, Licensed to Ill was/is where it's at. I was never a fan of Paul's Boutique.

Springtime means not just Beastie Boys lyrics but also an end to the sweater season (at least during daylight). For a fat person, this is quite a traumatic time of year. Sweaters camouflage. They hide the fat away. They give confidence. The switch to polo shirts and non-descript concert tees (KISS, Pixies, Mike Watt)is always accompanied by a good deal of anxiety. I'm wearing a striped polo right now. I caught a good look at myself in the window of the old folks home next door to the Evil Coffee joint. I looked fat. I was 135 lbs my senior year of high school. True story. What this has to do with poetry, I do not know.