Holy crap.

Spring struck like a thunderclap this year. Seems like it went from 45 degrees and cloudy and windy to 90 and balmy in the space of day or two.

And with the warmer temps the tourons came streaming in, an endless line of sillily packed cars packed chock-a-block full of spring breakiness. Used to be, touron season was the 100 days war between Memorial Day and Labor Day when they’d all finally leave.

Not no more.

Thanks to the City’s ever vigilant efforts the tourons flock back as soon as it’s warm enough to squeeze sun-challenged pudginess into shorts and bathing suits. And black socks. And bad hawaiian shirts. And neon everything, from t-shirts to sunglasses.

And while I yearn for the warmer weather and summertime I also gird myself, facing it with not a little dread. Gone is the relative solitude of winter. Gone are the empty beaches and keening wind. Another touron season is bearing down on us. Another year of noisy new neighbors every weekend reminding you that THEY’RE ON VACATION.


Which can be cool, sorta.

‘Cept it gets old after a couple a weeks and at times you find yourself longing for October.

So we grins and we bears it, right?

Knowing shit could be worse, right?

um, right?

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