There’s still snow on my street. The economy’s in the crapper. My 401k won’t buy me a sack of mini Charleston Chews. Marisa Tomei won’t return my calls. And we’ve got a federal deficit that all but ensures our grandkids of a lifetime of indentured servitude to the Chinese.

But tonight… tonight, none of that shit matters. They can rain hellfire and missiles and non-alcoholic beer and Rob Schneider DVDs up and down the village. I won’t bat an eye.

Because Remy and D.O. are back.

That’s right. They’re back. In your living room. Live on NESN. Laying it down spring training style, as only they can. Feeling up your wife and smoking your last good cigar.

And you’re gonna let them, aren’t you? Because you want them back. Because you need them back. Because life just makes a little more sense when they’re around.

Yeah, there’ll be Red Sox baseball tonight on NESN. Fresh, new games for the first time since our boys crawled off the field in Tampa Bay. It’s only a grapefuit game, but a fix is a fix when you’ve spent the last three months rolling pantsless in the gutter, replaying classic games in your mind and furiously typing fan letters to Eck’s moustache.

It’s also a split-squad game, meaning you’ll see one or two regular players, then a cavalcade of “Guys Who Could Be The Next Dustin Pedroia… or The Next Peter Hoy.” But, like I said, it’s hot, new Red Sox on Twins action. Never before seen. And that’s good enough for me.

A wise man once noted that you get so alone some times that it just makes sense. That’s kinda how I feel about the offseason. When they fold up the tents in October, I’m like a kicked dog, left to wander the streets, staring in the windows as other folks cozy up to the Patriots and Bruins and Celtics. I study the articles and pour over the hot stove and replay the DVDs and hunker down with all 62 volumes of “The Portable Terry Francona,” but everything seems so distant. So far away. Like the Christmas morning that’s never gonna get here.

But now it is. Baseball’s back. Red Sox baseball is back.

And god damn the man who tells me that these games don’t matter. Amidst fears of recession, killer robots and death by Katy Perry, they’re the only things that do.