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Greetings, my fellow sprung-forward port-swillers!

The return to Whichever Time (I can never keep it straight) that occurred early yesterday morning always leaves ol’ Robbo a bit fuddled, especially on the Monday immediately following.  For example, I would swear that I heard a reporter on NPR this morning arguing that the current surge in gas prices is a sign of a strengthening economy and therefore, by implication, a good thing for you whiny, selfish, short-sighted bastards.  Of course, I know I couldn’t have heard that quite right…..

Anyhoo, after the initial bout of flailing discombobulation (and the inevitable friction from trying to pry adolescents out of bed an hour earlier), I actually always enjoy the change, signalling as it does the end of that part of the year that I call the Time of the Mole People.  As a practical matter, the most immediate benefit is the fact that since it will no longer be dark when I return to the port-swiller residence in the quiet evenfall, the chances of my getting struck and killed by a passing car whilst checking the mail drop considerably. More generally, it is the traditional sign of other good, Springy, things to come – taking the sides off the Wrangler,  losing the overcoat, the smell of fresh water on warm sidewalk concrete, airing out the port-swiller residence.  The list goes on.

On a more esoteric plane, the switch in time is sure to reignite the Great Car Clock Controversy.  While I, of course, change all the other clocks at the port-swiller residence, I never bother with the one in the ol’ Wrangler, instead simply making a mental note to remind myself it’s an hour off.  (Technically, an hour and two minutes, actually.)  This came about at first because I didn’t know how to change the thing and was too lazy to look it up in the owner’s manual, but has, through custom, strengthened into something of a personal idiosyncrasy tradition.   For some reason, the gels all seem to find this habit of mine very aggravating, and it has become a favored topic of hectoring as we tool hither and yon about Our Fair City.  When I remember the virtue of patience, I reply gently that when they grow up, get jobs and can afford to buy their own cars, they can set their clocks any way they see fit.  In my moodier moments, I tell them they can get out and walk if it bothers them that much.


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March 2012