March Madness

March is one of those months, significant somehow, a notable time in the calendar. In some places, such as in Iran and Bali, March signifies the New Year. Winter is ending and Spring brings the gift of renewal, and the life cycle begins again. Except, however, in the Southern Hemisphere, March is when Summer ends and things die.

March falls under the astrological sign of Pisces, the Fish. Pisceans are, according to the Hindu Vedic astrology, a romantic and sentimental people, sensitive to the needs of others, and are generally selfless, tolerant and willing to suffer silently for the common good. However, Pisces are also signified by two fish swimming in opposite directions, showing their duality and adaptability. These characteristics are perhaps emblematic of the duality of the month itself, with its “In like a Lamb, Out Like a Lion” reputation, warranted or not. Or is that the other way around? See, there’s that duality.

Here in the Minnesota, March can be unpredictable for sure. Last March, for instance, there was no snow on the ground at all. In fact, it was so warm that the bats woke up prematurely from their hibernation, washed their faces, brushed their teeth, combed their hair and flew out of their caves looking for bugs to eat, of which there were none since it was still only March. I don’t know if they perished of hunger, or got wise to the lack of food and went back to sleep before it was too late. I haven’t seen any bats around town lately to ask them about what happened.

This year’s March is quite different, with waves of snowfall blanketing the ground, and no sign of letup in sight. The plows rumble by, piling it up on the curb, as we grab our shovels wearily, hopefully for the last time of the season.

March is also the month of St. Patrick’s Day, the feast day of the patron saint of Erin, who brought the Word of God to the pagans and thus condemned them to an eternity of depression, misogyny, sodomy, guilt and self-doubt. But we celebrate him, the old codger; the liquor conglomerates do so most affectionately. And we all play along, we do, by waving our flags and saluting the pipes and drinking our bellies full and having a merry good time.

And, of course, what is March without that recent branding triumph of “March Madness”. Aha! Woohoo! College Hoops. Bets. Brackets. Beers and Ballyhoo. In the age of One and Done, the illusion of a college education having been finally tossed away like a sweaty towel, these Spartans of the court, having been bred from birth to drive the lane and shoot threes with their eyes closed, revel in their exalted glory for the length of the tournament and, they dream, beyond.

Just as Pisceans are keenly aware of the beauty in life, the lure of possible NCAA tourney upset victories and last second Hail Mary shots reminds those who are constantly busy with “life”, that miracles are all around, waiting to be noticed.

In celebration of their triumph, the fatcats at the NCAA take this time of year to lower their hog-like bellies into vats of warm butter while call girls massage their teats with honey. It’s for the good of the game, by golly; and for the good of the nation.