It's patio season, people!

To commemorate the ever-so welcome return of spring, the ever-so welcome approach of moped season and the ever-so unwelcome changing of the clocks (YOU AREN'T SAVING ANY FUCKING DAYLIGHT, ASSHOLES, SO STOP FUCKING MAKING ME RESET EVERY FUCKING CLOCK IN MY FUCKING HOUSE JUST SO YOU CAN PLAY YOUR FUCKING GOLF UNTIL 10 O'FUCKINGCLOCK (end rant)), I propose we have a beer. Or three. Or five. Whatever it takes, really.

Let us drink to the warmth of the sun. Let us drink to the 5 months worth of garbage that is no longer hidden under the snow. Let us drink to the mud on my car. Most of all, let us drink to patios. Big patios with gas heaters and Labbatt Blue umbrellas. Little patios with plastic tables that flex under the weight of frothy pitchers of beer. Patios that aren't really patios at all, but are actually parking lots with small fences around them. Patios crawling with smokers who finally have a place to sit when they leave the bar for a smoke. Patios on rooftops. Patios hidden in alleyways. Patios full of optimistic people who can finally wear the skimpy clothes they bought on sale over the winter that are not quite warm enough for April but who, as true Canadians wear them and their goosebumps proudly. Patios like the one at Fion MacCool's on the Esplanade this Friday.