Ice Dicks and The Great Nothing

While I realize it's Valentine's Day, a holiday created by greeting card companies for guys trying to get laid, may I kindly remind everyone that March 14 is just around the corner. For those of you who don't know, March 14 is the guy's Valentine's Day, a holiday worthy of its own website. That's right, mark your calendars for Steak and BJ Day. Gentleman, pass the word. You deserve it.

This time of year, the gap between football and baseball season, is generally the most miserable time of the year for me. That's why we celebrate things like Truck Day in Red Sox Nation. Last Friday, a crowd actually gathered outside Fenway Park to watch the equipment truck leave for Fort Myers. Listen, I certainly take the Red Sox far more seriously than I should, but waiting in the freezing cold, in February, in New England, to watch a fucking truck drive off!

Get thee a life, sir!

This year, however, I have the Olympics to keep my attention. Now, I'm not necessarily the most patriotic guy on the block, but I'm pulling for our athletes. Whether it's curling or the two-man luge, which might be the most ostensibly gay sport outside of wrestling, I feel a pin-prick of pride when they're playing "The Star-Spangled Banner" with our countryman on the top tier of the platform; I feel like cracking a Bud and bombing the snot out of a random Middle East country. And figure skating, hell, it's only a small step down from softcore porn.

By the way, I was watching the Opening Game ceremonies on Friday night, which I now realize is just as pathetic as waiting for the truck on Truck Day, and was floored when Canada brought out Bryan Adams and a hot chick in a blue dress to sing a song specifically written for The Winter Games in Vancouver. Adams, dressed like a waiter, waves his arms and dances in front of ice sculptures shaped like giant phalluses. It was like watching an Albee play, for God's sake. And while I waited for Rush, The Bare Naked Ladies, and Celine Dion to complete the Canadian music experience for me, sadly, it was just Bryan Adams and the hot chick in the blue dress.

And the ice dicks.

Still, I wait in this great and barren block of nothingness on my calendar. I wait, not for a truck packed with bats and balls and jock straps, but for something of real significance, something to fill this existential hole, something like Thursday, when pitchers and catchers report to Spring Training.

Baseball season, yo.