Spring has sprung. This year it commenced with a Seder - a ceremo-nial dinner marking the beginning of Passover. My housemates and I ate matzah with bitter horseradish. We ate matzah with charoset. We ate chocolate-dipped matzah, and just plain old matzah. We ate gefilte fish - a sort of thinly-sliced, scrod-flavored bread pudding. For the uninitiated, it is fully as good as it sounds.
Though in truth, spring officially was issued earlier in the week with a secular ceremony - a trip to Camden Yards to see the blessed Red Sox walk in the winning run against the mighty Orioles.
How mighty? Muscular Oriole Jeff Conine enters the batter's box to an excerpt of a 10,000 Maniacs song. Nothing strikes fear in the heart of pitchers like Natalie Merchant and her freaky love vibe. In spite of the disappointing loss, this trip was no failure. To emerge from the tunnel and take in the ordered expanse of green, to watch balls launched in graceful 400-foot arcs during batting practice, to experience the best Italian sausage I've ever had in any park - all moments integral to the transition from winter to warmth. And especially to see the Sox fans in their "Yankees Suck" T-shirts, even when there were no Yankees to be found. We always must return to these simple truths.
But then, doesn't spring really begin with March Madness? America religiously fills in the brackets, 98-percent of the population's hearts are broken, yet we're all the better for it. Kids failing, kids transcending, fans getting drunk and being impregnated by Papa John's. Oh, the generative capabilities of spring.
Really, I don't suppose spring's yearly inception can be marked by a date, as it truly emerges not by a calendar, but by an eerie, glowing whiteness reflected off the surfaces of heretofore prudently concealed flesh. This is the essence of spring. People lose their inhibitions and loose their cottage cheese hues upon their neighbors. Portable stereos appear everywhere, blaring Phish and reggae music for the so-called benefit of all. Frisbees and hacky sacks galore! 'Tis a veritable orgy of flesh and sound and pseudo-athleticism.
A column on this page should not be a call to action - such politically-charged sentiments are reserved for the Opinion page. Yet, my conviction here cannot be restrained. Like my pasty upper arms, it will come out. I beg all readers - consider your neighbors in these times of degraded inhibitions. Charlottesville is no Puritanical Salem, I understand, and yet censor that disingenuous voice that would say, "I'm not that pale. I can totally take my shirt off." Or the one that argues, "Turn it up. Everybody needs to hear Dave Matthews' cool vibrations."
Heed your half-conscious conscience when it musters, "Maybe I shouldn't try to throw this Frisbee over that crowd of people. It might smack someone upside the head. And I'm drunk."
It is an excellent time of the year. Beyond the cold, before the swelter, we must enjoy these salad days with copious grilling, beer-guzzling and indiscriminate laziness. Yet we might do so without encroaching upon our neighbors. The sweating season has begun - wear deodorant.
Feet can sometimes smell - shoes and socks make for good stink control. If you are white, privately transition your skin into an acceptable hue, making use of backyards and depopulated spaces to do so. Then get naked if you must.
We are the world. We are the children. But we also are emerging from months of cloud cover and relative seclusion. Respect the squeamish. Recognize the sensory rights of your neighbors and prohibit the exposure of any ghastly white flesh.
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