Second best season to me beat only by its Fall sibling with Hallowe'en, the move to sexy toboggans (an inexplicable fetish - especially that little bang saying "hello" out the front with me coyly waving back) and sweaters, the downside is people yacking about that shit spiced pie-in-a-mug instead of the Lord's perfect Java. Ugh. Spring is bliss, renewal, resurrection (best straighten your wicked ass up, Holmes), romance, the warmth of Sol, cookouts, and chocolate hare decapitations.

      What's the reason for the season in lockup? The return of night movement at Northpoint means after we're brought in for a 6 PM institutional count being released outside to the community's bullpen, ostensibly a park sans grass with walkers, basketball, chess matches, tables of dudes gawking at pics of chicks bartered for noodles and coffee bags discussed like degraded NFL picks, frustrated surveilled couples, and pacing guards in sweaty uniforms. The chow hall Summer starvation menu returns to the delight only of mediocre PB'n'J enthusiasts, with the Easter "enhanced meal" consisting typically of a slice of Halal-OK'd Turkey Ham with a smidgen of pineapple (Approx. three canned chunks - danke schein, taxpayers!), sides of cheesy freeze-dried taters, pineapple cake (A+++ Ignunt, Maestro), and something else I forgot so I dropped commentary without effort.

      Provided is the score for your maiden barbecue, date night with new beau/bae/Winter crying-jag, ear-bud fiesta for inaugural mow of the 2026, or Phoenix wake-up a new you resolution soundtrack in the rebirth quarter: