This morning, I had a most unsatisfying groundpound. There is simply no way to get into the “zone” if you have to keep your eyes directed to the six-feet of pavement in front of your feet in order to be able to see potential hip-breaking patches of ice. I’m tired of “layering up” before the groundpound and having to carry a paper towel in my pocket for the inevitable runny nose. I hate using lip balm. I’m tired of the freezing wind stinging my face.

I’m ready for some spring. In that regard, last week, the Usual Suspects booked the airline tickets for this year’s May assault on the Sunshine State, where I avoid going anywhere near fresh water unless it’s in the pool or comes from the tap. It’s a gator thing. And, yes. Our place is on the second floor. I don’t believe that gators can climb stairs. Did I mention that I’m scared shitless of alligators? I believe I have.

Excuse me while I pour myself another taste of Russell’s Reserve Ten-Year Old Bourbon.

Farookin’ winter. Feh!