More strange days....

First of all, it's 50 degrees. 50 degrees! Do you even comprehend that? Let me just tell you: You don't. No parkas hunched over trudging down the sidewalk. The city is Eskimo-free. And today I even took a jog down Lake Shore Drive, which was lovely. I took off down the street in running shorts – running shorts! – like a caged beast set free.

I'm gonna go out on a limb here and quoteth legendary Lakers announcer Chick Hearn, or as I like to call him, Jesus.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this one is in the refrigerator."

That's right – I'm officially putting winter in the fridge, Chick Hearn-style, may God watch over him wherever he may be. The jello's jigglin', the eggs are coolin', and the butter's getting hard.

Editor's note: It's February 5. All Dickie has accomplished here is to pull a Punxatawny Phil and condemn the Midwest to another 2 months of bitter cold. Nice job, chief. Apparently your jinx doesn't end at sports.

When I got home, there was a message on my voice mail. I see it's my best friend Greg calling me from Mardi Gras, currently chugging hurricanes down in the Mother Land, so I take a shower and then give it a check.

"Hey man, I have some really big news from last night. Good news. And I have something important to ask you. Call me back."

Ohmigod. I think I know where this is going.

No way. It can't be.

Greg was supposed to be, like, the last one out of all of us to get married. The last one!

Meanwhile, not even 48 hours ago the Artist Formerly Known as Cronkette dumped me, and among her extensive laundry list of grievances presented were clauses 41c.) "You don't know what you want," and 58f.) "You're scared of commitment." (We don't have to go over any of the clauses at this time, thank you very much.)

So let me get this straight: I'm scared of commitment. In other news, Greg is getting married.

We have just lost cabin pressure.

OK, there is officially something wrong with me. It's not even a case of people "dropping like flies" and all those other clichés when your buddies start getting married off. If matrimony is a plague, then with Greg's engagement, I am officially the last man standing, cursed to wander the empty city streets and live out the rest of my life on non-perishable canned goods left in the abandoned supermarkets.**

(**Of course, it goes without saying we could fix this immediately if someone were to introduce me to Scarlett Johansson. I mean, have you even seen the latest cover of Esquire? No? What's wrong with you?)

And hopefully this doesn't sound derogative of my best friend from back home – that's not my intent at all. It's really an incredible development and turn of events – the guy has come a long way from our days on the set of Cabaret freshman year of high school. I'm so genuinely happy and excited for him – and I can't wait to meet his fiancée and party it down and send them off on a happy life together. Plus...I'm Best Man! Giddyup!

But holy shit, this is just a lot to digest in the course of, like, 48 hours. The times they are a-changin’. Ain’t that the truth.