I swear, I tried to cut back. I am trying to put my life back together. But you don't know how easy it is these days to get a fix. The weather outside is breezy and ripe with pollen. Inside, there's always a game going. After surviving most of the college basketball season with passing interest, I've settled into the March Madness glow once again.

It was so simple during the regular season. If the game wasn't competitive or didn't involve quality teams or my alma mater, I could leave it alone. I just turned off that basic cable and found something else to do. I'm no junky. I'm a sophisticated human being with varied interests. I'm not one of those sports hungry fanatics, pumping his fists at a television that sucks up emotion and eye socket juice for fuel. I am in denial.

Suddenly, it's tournament time, and all my rehabilitation techniques go out the window. Two games going on from ten in the morning until ten at night. If one game becomes a blowout, there's another one to check up on. All of my qualifiers go out the window. I'm staring at Vermont vs. Albany, Toledo vs. Kent State, Xavier vs. St. Joseph. Who's on the teams? Who cares? It's tournament time. Somebody will be deliriously euphoric, somebody will be inconsolably depressed. Here I am, passively feeding off their emotions. The drug still works after all these years. Feed the monkey on my back.

There's something about the concept of a single elimination tournament that draws on my addictive qualities. It's all or nothing. Win and you're still in. Lose and you're out. Add to this that these are physically mature men but actually emotional babies in the scheme of life, and you've got a formula for instability and unknown consequences. Feel the buzz.

That's what really feeds my basketball jones. The unknown. No one knows. I don't go in for color commentary so much, opting to put on my own soundtrack while I watch the ball dribble (yeah, I'm one of those guys). Listening to good tunes while college kids heave the orange ball from all over the court. Basketball haze all in my brain.

It doesn't matter that I'm a white male who can jump about six inches off the ground and haven't played team basketball since grade school. It doesn't matter that my alma mater was knocked out in the first game of their conference tournament. It doesn't matter that I have no connection with any of these schools or states or players. March Madness hooks all who are willing to start staring.

The phrases for basketball plays border on pornographic: the give and go, backdoor cuts, driving hard & quick penetration, the kick out, slamming it down, throwing it down the hole. Okay, the whole concept of basketball is a metaphor for sex. Move the ball around until you can stick it in the hole. If you screw up, turn over. If you get to flustered, take a time out & work on a new strategy. Yes, as with most quality sports, the parallels between scoring in the game and scoring with a partner must be both subtle and obvious. I've never gotten laid while watching basketball, but it still can be an emotional experience with quite an exciting climax. The junkie always justifies his addiction, and I want to be aroused.

Since I'm hooked yet again, I know there is only one cure. Abstinence, I mean, cold turkey, I mean, go on a binge until I've hit rock bottom. Don't make it available. Take it off my TV. Stop reporting it in the newspaper. Make these young men go to class for a change. No such luck.

The big NCAA Tournament begins this week, so I've got three more weeks of a bad habit. The ball dribbles, and my eye socket juice runs dry. I have a problem. I have a sickness. I have the March Madness.

I'll be back in April when they take my drug away.

Chris Jungle fouls out every game.