Groundhog Day

Originally Posted Saturday, February 2, 2013

Groundhog Day.  I love the movie.  I think.  I haven't seen it since it came out.  But I like the concept, and I like Bill Murray.  I don't care much for the grizzled-haired creature they bring out to predict the coming of Spring, however.  There is nothing appealing about them, and even poor people don't like to eat them.  I know.  My relatives tell me the meat is very greasy and has an awful smell.  They are just varmints.  I went out this morning, though, and saw my shadow which is a very good thing if it means six more weeks of this weather.  It is something perfect. 

Last night, I broke my rule.  I have a new boss at the factory and he threw a little soiree for the workers at a local wine shop.  They had set up a tent in the parking lot and poured a bunch of different wines.  When this began to wind down, C.C. said we needed to get a real drink, and it seemed that there were many in need, so we walked over to another place and sat outside next to a gas fire on a cooling southern late afternoon going early evening.  It was a place for yokels who need to pretend they are living an upscale lifestyle but aren't really willing to pay for good martinis and top shelf scotches on a regular basis, so I went in to talk to the bartender and ask her if she could make a good vodka martini.  She looked right in my eye and said, "Sure," with confidence and then made a really shitty one anyway because that is all she knew how to do.  When I commented, she said, "It's all just liquid anyway," and in truth, it was Kettle One and it would do the job.

Drink led to drink and I was willing to go that way as the crowd began to slowly thin, people having Friday night plans elsewhere, but they were a good group of people with whom to drink and I had a thoroughly good time.  And then, sitting in shirtsleeves in the growing cold, now chilled and a little drunk, I got in my car to drive back to my house and my usual life thinking I needed to eat and thinking, too, that I would have to cook as I'm not eating out so that I might avoid the flu if possible.  But as I was backing out, my car was seized by a young kid from another department. 

"No you don't," he said.  "We're all over at Sandborne's with the boss.  Come on.  I'm buying you a drink." 

So I pulled back in and went over to Sandbornes and let him pour me a big glass of wine.  This was a different crowd and they had been drinking as long as the other, and there was new territory to cover, so energy levels went up and more wine was poured and then. . . I had to get food.  So I did.  I ate out. I ate a little of everything that was on the table, and everything was good but for the steak I ordered, a gristly little cut of leather.  And when I said I needed a whiskey, the kid who brought me over ran to the place next door and got four big glasses of Glenn Fiddich which is not the drink of choice for kids and so everyone had to pass it around and taste the scotch and then there was more coming from across the street in some thoroughly illegal manner, and I, too, was drinking from the Loving Cup of bacteria and viruses that may or may not be killed by whiskey. 

I got home somehow and passed out on the couch. At two-thirty, parched, I had some water and went to bed.  This morning. . . my stomach is churning, my nose is running.  You will tell me that symptoms won't show up in eight hours, but you don't know.  You are not a doctor. 

I need some deer antler spray.  I'm sure I would beat whatever is about to ail me. 

Regardless, last night was good for me.  It was what I needed to bring me out of the funk I was in.  The nightmares of the night before wilted in the warmth of camaraderie.  I was among the throng, part of the pack, a standout among standouts. . . a man catching the common diseases with uncommon people. 

I know you will wait with bated breath to see how this turns out.  No worries. . . either way, you will be the first to know.  Fuck it.  I may go out for breakfast now.  I have missed getting bacon and eggs on the weekend at the greasy diner.  Yes, yes, I shall go.  I'll text you pictures if you want.