I woke up this morning, and felt like finally I had really woken up. From a sort of slushy dream within a sleety dream within a bitingly blusteringly snow-squally dream—otherwise details kinda fuzzy. Scratching my head and asking myself idly, did winter really happen?

And does it really matter now?

This after a long night spent with Thom Yorke's mind-bending The Eraser. Shit's like three exits beyond cathartic. Better than prescription drugs. You should try it. You wake up next day feeling like you've been baptized in quicksilver.

But I'm switching CDs (I know—I'm showing my age, but whatever)—spring's not the season for Thom Yorke. This morning I put on Belle and Sebastian. Waking up to "Song for the Sunshine"—a little early morning twee pop—now, that's what I'm talkin' about. Are they being a little tongue-in-cheek, a little ironic? They're not telling. And I'm not asking. Love it.

Cuddlecore is not cathartic, of course, but then you don't want catharsis first thing in the morning, do ya? You don't wake up and cathart. You've at least got to get you a cup of coffee first. At least I do. And then maybe a minor epiphany on my morning ride to warm up for it. And then generally I'd say it's three in the afternoon before I have my catharsis. That's why I need that afternoon nap.  Sometimes the nap is the catharsis, in fact.  

So I've been doing some spring cleaning—clearing those cobwebs out of the old attic, if you catch my drift. You're probably thinking, well it's about time. But I'm right on track, actually. Maybe a little late to start—but winter was late, and bumped spring back a bit. Still plenty of time for getting busy before summer comes along, squashing spring's ambition and industriousness with its idleness and lethargy.

But spring! Get it while you can—it's going fast! I mean, could you ask for more gorgeous weekend weather than we've just had? Could today have been any more perfect? My God, it was painfully gorgeous. It reminds me of that song by Daniel Johnston, "To Go Home", lately covered by M. Ward + Neko Case:

God it's great to be alive
Takes the skin right off my hide
To think I'll have to give it all up some day

Part of the rapture of The Perfect Day is the slow-blossoming sadness at seeing it pass. And spring and autumn are such bittersweet little seasons. So beautiful, so fleeting.

Weather is a constant sore spot in these parts, of course, where everything seems to be. It snows in the winter. People grouse about it. It rains in the spring. People gripe as if it shouldn't. People talk as if sunny and seventy-five is the way it's supposed to be. When it is, they're all smug, like, "yeah, I thought so." But ask them about the weather, and they'll inevitably say something like, "why can't it always be like this?" or "but it's supposed to rain tomorrow."

I know I have mentioned before how good deeds go unacknowledged around here—the same could be said for good weather. And it's the same entitlement mentality that explains why. I mean, I sometimes think Bostonians honestly believe they're entitled to good deeds and good weather, which means they'll complain bitterly when they don't get it (which is most of the time), but you'll hear nothing when they do.

Just ask Big Papi what he thinks of Boston these days.

It's funny. I've started reading sports news. I never used to because if I was interested in the outcome of a game, which I seldom was, I just skimmed the headlines, and that was enough. I like the pictures, too, of course. But the narratives are so breathless and overheated, and the on- and off-the-field dramas rival the best Spanish soap operas. It sucks you right in.

My longstanding irritation with Sox Nation blossomed into a full-on rash after the Reverse of The Curse in '04. And I felt if I was going to spend any time here at all in the future I needed to at least attempt to understand the complex of pathologies driving Sox fans. Who knows but it may the key to understanding the city itself.

One thing I have noticed over the years is something Big Papi's just discovering, apparently: "People want to see you fail. That's not what I've ever wanted to believe, but that's what I've seen around here."

I don't know if anyone really wants Big Papi to fail, but Sox Nation is so inured to failure that they have come to expect, even—though they'll deny it—to demand it. It's a worldview, and the disappointment of failure is subordinate to the satisfaction of the confirmation of the worldview failure provides.

Same goes for lousy weather and rudeness, is my point.

It's all connected, see.

I went to see 28 Weeks Later Saturday. I liked the concept and the scrappiness and energy of the first one (I wrote a bit about it here and here), and while this one's pretty good (Imogen Poots, despite the unfortunate name, is, in the last scene, so stunningly gorgeous, it's worth suffering through the movie to see her in it)—it's not as fun as the first, and gets bogged down in action movie cliches, but it's not bad.

But watching it reminded me of what I found so spot-on about Danny Boyle's idea of the "rage virus"—I mean, all you have to do is look in the news today to see that it's reached our shores and is spreading fast.

But I for one am changing the soundtrack. A little Belle and Sebastian. Shop Assistants. The Clouds. Henri Fabergé & The Adorables. The Field Mice.  Maybe some Trembling Blue Stars.

Because it's supposed to be mostly sunny and seventy tomorrow, too.