And unfortunately, in New England, that generally means that the snow has melted enough for all the dead stuff it was covering to start festering, with the smell of decomposition hanging in the air like a thick Gloucester fog.

The annual migration of the cops has brought them back to their speed trap haunts, with thoughts of revenue enhancement on their minds, the precursor to their yearly feeding frenzy at the summer construction detail grounds.

The cruelest days, those that come right before the emergence of the green…the days of death. I truly cannot stand March…