Diuretics and Disappointment: Groundhog Day 2026

We may have given our readers a false hope; a hope that Groundhog Day should be returned to it's former place of glory. We were indeed hopeful that we should be able to deliver the good news on this day, Groundhog Day Eve. Alas, it is not to be. Despite all our best efforts, we find that we are unable to bridge the rift that has occurred between man and rodent. 

There will be no Groundhog tomorrow morning. Don't bother looking, they're not going to show. It's nothing to do with the weather, for as bad as that is. Winter will continue. For months and, in a broader sense, perhaps years to come. The Groundhog is not eager to tender forgiveness, choosing instead to remain wary, skeptical. Some say it will take a generation to heal the break in that trust. Perhaps, yet even then, it may be healed but forever scarred.

The last time the Groundhog took part in this mid-winter silliness was in pre-plandemic 2020.  After observing the events of that year, the North American Groundhog Guild held a council and decided that they would no longer participate in the human tradition of Groundhog Day. That story was broken five years ago, on this date, by the late Carlton Milhouse. A copy of that report follows below. As of this writing, NAGG remains steadfast in their position.

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 In Pennsylvania they have Punxsutawney Phil. In neighboring Ohio there is Buckeye Chuck. I’m not actually certain if the ritual is observed there, but if there is Groundhog Day in Canada I rather imagine that there is some such moniker as Glace Bay Gord or Winnipeg Wilf. Maybe it’s Woodchuck Day in Canada, and like their Thanksgiving it is likely observed six weeks apart from our own. Given the length of Canadian winters I would reckon their Groundhog/Woodchuck Day to land somewhere around 16 March. Any interested Canadians are invited to share their insights on this topic in the comment section below. You don’t have to be an actual Canadian; an alleged Canadian will do. Really anyone, except Justin Bieber or Ryan Reynolds.

Well, we have waxed Canadian for quite long enough I should think. Groundhog Day is an American phenomenon which has been, by the silent hand of some unnamed grace, legitimized by it’s printed recognition in most common calendars. In the pantheon of meaningless symbolism that comprises the American holiday calendar Groundhog Day has been elevated to rock star status as a result of the 1993 film of the same name. For most of us within a certain age bracket we find that the film and the day itself are forever and inextricably linked in our hearts and minds. It is for this very reason that the Ale 81 Inn and Milhouse Farms chose Groundhog Day for the premiere of our Chairman’s Choice. That, and the Hilltop Groundhog Lasagna Festival. I mean come on…. fresh, roadkill groundhog and lasagna? What self respecting stoner could resist this?

It saddens me greatly to share this news, but it turns out that this decision was taken without the benefit of all relevant data. Though it was hardly our intention at the outset, we have since come to learn that there is rather a lot more involved in Groundhog Day than any of us knew. In a landscape where truth has taken heavy casualties we will proceed with some caution from here. We will attempt to be sensitive to a populace which may have been rendered too vulnerable to fully absorb these shocking revelations. If the fear and tumult of the past twelve months has left you feeling more easily triggered than normal then my advice would be that you stop here. Should you choose to proceed, do so at your own peril.

The Hilltop Groundhog Lasagna Festival went on as planned, despite a weekend winter storm and the chill and bitter winds that followed in it’s wake. The hearty citizens of neighborhoods like Wiltshire Heights, Holly Hill, Briggsdale, and lest we forget our brethren from north of route 40, even Valleyview were represented. From aging and weathered Anchor-Hocking crockery to the more modest $2 foil pan from Dollar General, they came all with their gourmet inspired interpretations of one of the world’s most beloved rodent-themed pasta dishes. The parade, postponed to Monday for inclement weather, was an abbreviated affair conducted with a modest fleet of pickup trucks led by a garbage truck of a private sanitation firm. The garbage truck with yellow caution lights flashing proceeded at the front as a sort of terrestrial icebreaker, leaving a passable set of ruts in the frozen slush for the parade to follow. Other trucks, vans and popup tents ringed the Confederate Cemetery, the steam from their many chafing pans escaping to form a cloud interspersed with liberal amounts of cannabis fume. It is said that there may have been Irish coffee and other warming beverages on offer in some of those tents. I personally did not get the chance to try it myself, but there was talk of a “Cocoa Captain”: a hot cocoa spiked with Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum. It can fairly be said that what the residents of the Hilltop may lack in sophistication they more than make up for in inventiveness.

After the official crowning of Karen Cox-Zucker as the 2021 Groundhog Lasagna Queen the top prize lasagna was announced. This year’s prize winner was a dark horse in the race, Mr. Otis “Whitey” Cruikshank of North Wheatland Avenue. Mr. Cruikshank is the proud recipient of a year’s supply of Mountain Dew and Slim Jims, redeemable at the BP station on the corner of Hague and Sullivant Avenues. In glee of his victory Whitey was inspired to don an adult sized groundhog suit and dance about the crowd, exhorting them to greater celebration of that Groundhog Day magic. Though his intentions were completely benign, the results were counterproductive. The home made suit animated by his unsteady movements bore more of a resemblance to a brown bear with Tourette’s Syndrome and really only served to frighten the young children. What public event isn’t complete without shrieking infants?

As daylight waned on Monday evening the citizens of Hilltop began to make ready for the Groundhog Day Eve vigil. Before everything was broken down and the crowd began to disperse I had an announcement to share. I was acutely aware that this announcement would be a complete buzzkill, so I held it back for as long as possible. I did not have the heart to break the merriment of the day with this sad news, but I realized that it had to be done. Better to save it for the end.

” Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention for just a moment? I have an announcement to make before everything wraps up here. I am… I am afraid that I have a bit of sad news to share. I didn’t want to dampen the occasion before now, but this has to be told.” A slow murmur grew and then a hush fell over the crowd. “Tomorrow is indeed Groundhog Day and nothing will change that. Make no mistake: your efforts here are profoundly appreciated. Despite this, however, there will be no groundhog tomorrow morning.”

I paused at this point, thinking that this would be met with a sudden outburst of shock and disbelief, perhaps even howls of derision. Instead there were only muted groans of disappointment. I had expected that surely one person would cry out “Why?”, but that did not happen. It was a reaction of a populace who has come to expect that no matter what they do there will be some nameless, faceless prick to thwart their desires. There is no explanation to be expected, only blind compliance. And so they part in sullen silence, scheming how they might circumvent yet another round of ill informed and baseless regulations foisted upon them. As more and more rules are added to the game they have simply opted out of playing altogether. This has become a common theme nationally with a strong and surly undercurrent. Despots dance as the alternative economy grows under their noses and the people see that the state is not a partner in prosperity, rather it is a parasite riding upon it.

The distribution of The Chairman’s Choice continues apace, despite being cheated of the inaugural event. In what follows here you will learn that this theft occurred not as a result of any government intervention, rather it comes as a result of the groundhog likewise deciding to gather up it’s toys and go home. They have decided that they don’t want to play any more. I know this because they told me in a clandestine meeting on Sunday 31 January. I warned you that these revelations might be shocking.

In preparation for our premiere I sought out the local groundhog population for coordination. To begin it should be stated that the Groundhog Day celebration is not the result of various and random woodchucks deciding to poke their heads out of their burrows at some appointed hour to amuse their fellow mammals. There is instead an extensive Groundhog Guild operating beneath our feet on a daily basis. Those which you may see in the recording of events in Punxsutawney and elsewhere are not volunteers. Instead they are the result of a sort of subterranean college of cardinals convening on an annual basis. The groundhogs who appear on that most blessed of days do so as a result of having been selected by their peers. I have learned that this is in fact an ancient tradition among their species and it has NOTHING to do with meteorological prognostications. I could continue to recount this tale for all of you, but I should think it better that you have it as a transcript of the original tale as related to me by the Hilltop steward of NAGG (North American Groundhog Guild), one Westgate Wally. It should be noted that this does not necessarily reflect the personal views of Westgate Wally, rather it is an approved statement emanating from NAGG’s central committee. What follows here is an abridged version of my brief conversation with Wally and then, in italics, the official NAGG statement:

(on a park bench, northwest corner of Westgate Park, Sunday 31 Jan. 2021)

” Jee-e-e-sus! Could ya picked a better day Carlton? I’m freezing my fuckin’ tail off here!”

“Uh, yeah… sorry about that Wally. As a token of our appreciation for coming out to meet us like this here is a pound of The Presidential Cheese…..”

“A pound!? Really? Where the fuck you think I’m gonna carry that, huh? You think I’m a Kangaroo… like I got a pouch or somethin’?”

“Well…uh, I could maybe carry it back to the burrow for you?”

“Yeah? You’re fuckin’ A right you’re gonna carry that back to the burrow. So where’s Ford, huh? You’re saying we like there was more than one of ya’s, but all I see is you. How’s come Ford didn’t show up, huh?”

“Ah, Ford. Yes. Ford sends his regards, but he is currently in a state of exile I’m afraid.”

“Uh-huh. Gone manic again, has he?”

“Well, you could say that, I suppose…”

” I gotchas, brother. You don’t have to say no more. Oo-kay… we got some business here, right?”

“Yes. Yes we do. We wanted to have the ceremony set up around the Confederate Cemetery, but for the official appearance we were wondering if you had a tunnel opening somewhere inside the wall?”

“Ya know what Carlton? I think you been samplin’ too much of the product ’cause you don’t have any idea what the fuck is really goin’ on. You think that Punxsutawney Phil is like North Pole Santa and all the rest of us…me, Buckeye Chuck, Strongsville Steve, Waverly Wilma, all of us… that we’re just like shopping mall Santas that you can rent for a few hours on Saturday morning. I mean…DAMN! Fuckin’ humans. You’re garbage is top rate man, but all the fuckin’ drama! You know what I’m sayin’? Not you personally Carlton. We’re cool. Just… I dunno man. It’s just all gone wrong somewhere, ya know?”

“Well, I guess I never thought of it from that perspective Wally. I mean, I feel like maybe I owe you some kind of an apology, but I’m still not really sure what it is that you’re trying to say.”

“Yeah. Look Carlton… this ain’t all coming from me, okay? There’s some things you need to know. It’s time that you and all your kind finally learn the truth.”

“The truth? The truth about what?”

“Fuck! Okay, here it is kid. You ever heard of a group called NAGG?”

“The National Organization of Women?”

“Nah, not those cunts! NAGG… N A G G. Nag-guh!”

“Uh, no.”

“Yeah? Well ya just did. North American Groundhog Guild. That includes ALL North American groundhogs and the Walla Walla Woodchucks sub-chapter. Our legal department makes us put that last bit in. Any-hoo…take me for an example, huh? Me and my furbearers have been crawlin’ around this patch since before the Johnny Rebs were picking ticks off each other over yonder in Camp Chase. We were here when the French trappers passed through. All the way back to before the white man. No offense!”

“Oh, none taken my friend. One tribe’s savagery is as good as another’s.”

“Indeed. Thank you Carlton. You have provided me the perfect segue to the statement.”

“The statement? What statement?”

“THE statement, dumbass! From NAGG!”

“The North American….”

“That’s right! Spit it out… guh- guh- guh- Groundhog Guild!”

“Okay. Their official statement. Now?”

“Yes. Ya ready?”

“Can I blaze up first?”

“<sigh> Sure, g’ ‘head.”

“Ok. That’s better. Go ahead.”

“Ya sure?”

“Yeah. Go.”

Annual statement of NAGG policy advisory board January 2021

As we enter our second decade of the twenty-first century we are at a crossroads. We look back at our long history, a history of long traditions, of our culture and customs. And we look forward. Forward is always unknown, but until now forward has always included a light somewhere in the distance. Somewhere on the edge of the horizon there has always been that dim glow, but this glow has dimmed to a mere ember. We have no hope that it should not be extinguished.

In a time before the Iroquois descended from the Laurentian Plain; before Comanche had lain with Spaniards; before the Mayans had folded their tents and vanished into the jungle, there came an awful winter. A winter years long when darkness painted the sky. We shivered in our burrows as food grew scarce. This famine killed many of our number and of the native peoples of this land. As conditions reached desperation many of our brethren ventured forth in the quest for sustenance. The native peoples were starving too and haunted the entrances of our vast network to take our flesh for their own sustenance. One by one we were massacred until we were at the gates of extinction.

Finally a fair wind breathed across the land. The snows abated and life slowly returned to our fields and forests. It was in commemoration of these dark times that an agreement was forged between the groundhog and the red man: that every year in mid winter we would sacrifice one of our own to the red man as a testament of faith to this agreement. This was our custom for hundreds upon hundreds of years. Then came the white man.

As we witnessed the genocide of the red man this custom was slowly abandoned, replaced in symbolism by only appearing at our burrow openings in mid winter. This is how we arrived at the white man’s tradition of Groundhog Day. Groundhog Day is the white man’s tradition; it is not our tradition, but only a shadow of our suffering long past. With the exception of more remote areas the white man’s palate has lost the taste for Groundhog flesh. We have, sometimes with reluctance, continued to humor this tradition in exchange for the relative safety accorded to us under the white man’s rule. Times are changing and there is an ill wind upon our fair land.

We have been concerned for some time. We have observed crimes against nature. They remove trees to create “lawns”. Then upon these lawns they pour fertilizer and vile chemicals to soak the earth. These make the weeds grow and for four to five months a year they ritualistically cut the weeds, bag their clippings and have them hauled away to “landfills”. They are hauled by rumbling behemoths they dub “garbage trucks”, frightful, multi wheeled carriages with a house of horror laden upon their backs. Many a groundhog has given the last full measure before these monsters. To these and lesser vessels our numbers are decimated every year and it keeps getting worse. Their wheeled metal boxes are everywhere, in every color, shape and size imaginable. And they are actually working on something called “self driving cars”. We are not certain what this actually means, but we are pretty certain that it will not be good for us. The carnage far exceeds anything we suffered in our blood sacrifice to the red man.

Still we have played along with their annual charade. Every year there are a select few of us who are honored by the vote of our peers to rise above ground at dawn on a mid winter morning. Those brave few have endured on our account the horrors of television crew lights, the madding crowds, the clutching hands and toddlers with snotty noses frozen in the cold. And for what? A cameo appearance with Bill Murray? A footnote one day of the year on their calendars? Clever tongue twisters?

My friends the urban back lots; the back alleyways; utility right of ways along major roads, all of these have had a good run for us. We have managed to adapt and thrive, but that tide is turning. It is time for us to return to the wooded lot; the fence lines of grain fields; the irrigation ditches, to our homes of old. Our scouts have remained diligent. The reports of human activities in the past nine months alone are enough to make the case on their own merit: it is time we cut bait on these motherfuckers.

This year on February 2nd remain in your burrows. It’s not safe out there. If you must go out you may only do so between the hours of 6:00 AM and 6:00 PM. If you must go out wear a diaper. There is no telling what those depraved fuckers will try to stick up your ass. Finally, any groundhog participating in the human celebration of Groundhog Day will be PERMANENTLY expelled from NAGG with no opportunity for reinstatement. These are stringent measures, but we are in dangerous times. Its completely necessary. TRUST ME.

You were warned. Now you know the truth about Groundhog Day. If you were paying close attention you may have discerned a few other truths.

Well friends that is all for this High Tea. Until next time this is Carlton Milhouse, your botanist, saying Keep Calm and Blaze On.

The Hour approaches...

 

February 2 is a day "celebrated" for a certain rodent. As entertaining as that continuing saga may be, what really makes the day special is that for the millions who suffer with seasonal affective disorder, February 2 is a bellwether. If one has not decided to end it all by February 2, then chances are better than 50-50 that one should make it to Winter's end.

This year, on Groundhog Day Eve, we here at Midnight and other beasts encourage you to put out your offering for Old Bucky. This Sunday night, before setting in for that long Winter's nap, place a small table or stool next to your fireplace. A milk crate will do. If there is no fireplace or mantle in your home, then place it in your largest, first-floor bathroom. Or your only bathroom, if that is the case. Upon your offertory table, stool or milk crate, please set out all of your soon-to-be-expired anti-depressants and/or anti-anxiety medications, accompanied by a quart (give or take) of vodka. If no vodka is available, a bottle of Nyquil is an acceptable substitute. 

Survivor's Guilt

 

I'd go back and save them all

if I could

probably wrong to do so

For reasons not for us to know

their deaths served some purpose

I would save them for selfish reasons

For good or ill, part of my own

Only wanting to discover

where continued intersections lead

So selfish

No respect for their wishes

or desires of those passed

Might not even have been a part

or grown to be someone's villain

We read the book

the art you commended

Now acquainted with the inspiration

and feeling quite unmoved

A well-practiced leer at the Rumba Bar

a girl dancing looked like Annie

Made me think

of a home so far away

Eleven

11

 days until Groundhog Day 

Are you ready? I think the little bastard is going to be snowed in this year. What happens then? And will the Buzzards maintain their appointed rounds six weeks hence? Stay tuned...

                               

                                 Only the Groundhog knows

Bail, part 3

The check in had been easy. A weekday, technically still afternoon. The evening refugees from the highway, only a little more than one hundred yards distant, had not yet arrived. After presenting his Hilton Honors card, he decided to ask if they had a jacuzzi suite available. They did, room 313, for $145 a night. He booked it, paid and had a couple of key cards for the room inside of ten minutes. It was more than he typically would pay for one night's stay, but this wasn't a typical day. Today it was worth it.

When he returned to the lot Vic found Tammy, casually leaning against the side of the car, smoking a cigarette. She looked so... young! For just that instant Vic heard a scolding voice inside his head. You're old enough to be her father, you piece of shit! This was followed almost instantly by another voice inside his head replying, Yeah, don't care. She's an adult. When he arrived within earshot of her, he realized that wasn't a cigarette she was smoking.

"Hey! Hope ya don't mind I decided to start without ya. This shit's really loud, ya know? Didn't wanna stink up your ride."

"Yeah? That's real nice of you. Pass it over!"

They spent ten minutes out there, leaning against Vic's car and sharing that joint in a chill March wind. Vic now had some context for her meaning of the term "loud", though he was missing this property out in the open air. Just as most do not drink beer for it's taste, there are few who smoke weed for it's smell. Of course, the smell of beer is hardly an indicator for it's potency. As it had been quite some time since he'd had any, Vic was woefully unprepared for this. The strain that had been gathered that day was of a variety that some might refer to as "creep weed". After smoking three quarters Vic could feel that familiar buzz and was ready to tag out. He wouldn't become aware of how baked he was until they went inside Longnecks for their early dinner.

At ten of 5:00 the two of them entered Longnecks, not reeking, but certainly carrying a hint of the herb upon themselves. The first warning sign to Vic came the moment the entry door closed behind them. The inside of the establishment was reasonably well lit, but following the dun white skies it was like entering a cave. He felt frozen in his tracks as his eyes adjusted. Then suddenly, the panic seized him. All of his periphery was darkened and fuzzy, leaving him very concerned for whatever might be lurking there. The only thought that remained clear was that he wanted to reach the bar. There was a narrow tunnel of light, cast from the row of flat screens mounted over the bar. They just needed to follow the light for thirty feet.

There was a hostess seated at the cashier's station to their left. Marla. Vic had not seen her. Marla was thirty-something, had one of those cynical faces that said nothing would surprise her. She had instantly caught a whiff of them, bringing a smirk to one corner of her mouth. She looked them over, trying to sort out what was their deal. This is one of those valuable life lessons that one learns from being a hostess in a sports bar.  

They did present quite the pair. There was the tall, lean figure of a man who looked to be in his late forties. Salt and pepper hair, well-tailored wool jacket, grey slacks and some expensive looking shoes. Probably some kind of sales rep or insurance executive. And the girl. The girl didn't fit. A daughter? She looked young enough. She looked like she had dug her clothes out of a Salvation Army donation bin. Maybe a college student? Maybe this was some kind of neo-punk fashion statement. Marla was kind of digging the black converse. Could this be some kind of daddy-daughter smoke down date? 

"Hey, y'all. You folks want a table, or would you like to sit at the bar?"

Tammy and Marla both giggled a little when Vic jumped, he was so startled by her sudden appearance. He recovered quickly, didn't seem to notice their amusement.

"Yeah... we're just gonna... yeah, the bar's good." 

Marla just waved them on then. No reason to get up, no reason to think about them anymore. They were Paul, the bartender's problem now. They shuffled onward to the bar, where surely adult beverages and cooked vittles awaited them. Vic felt like he was wearing lead boots. It was taking a frightfully long time to cover that thirty feet. 

At last, they were there. Vic collapsed onto a stool; Tammy took the one on his right.

"Jesus, Vic... you okay? Don't stroke out on me!"

"No, no... nothing like that. What the fuck did you put in that weed?"

"I told ya it was some good shit!"

"Yeah... fair. You did. Holy shit!"

"Ya know what you need, Vic? You need a drink!"

Yes. Indeed. A drink and many more. The evening was young and there were great hills to be conquered. They began with two 24oz tall drafts. They both had a serious munch on, ordered a fifteen piece wings, a basket of smothered fries. When the food arrived there were two more tall drafts. And an order for a bacon cheeseburger.

For the next hour and a half they gorged themselves on draft beers and fried foods. A sparse crowd filtered in during that time, all taking seats at a distance from them. The closest of any were a pair of hard hat types, huddled over beer and shots at the end of the bar to their right. Tammy gave up on the drink after her second tall. Vic had four. Throw a few double bourbons into that mix. By 7:00 Vic was in the full throes of a crunk attack. At 6:00 Tammy had dropped two more 500 oxys. It is a good thing they closed the check when they did. Shortly after 7:00 they weaved their way to the exit and out into the waiting darkness.

It had grown colder out. The wind, which was coming right at their faces, had picked up, now spitting cold sleet. The frigid air was bracing, restoring just enough sobriety to arrive at the idea of going to the car to smoke another joint. It was another of those minor miracles to be found in mind altering substances; those fleeting moments of clarity only serve to remind that you still want more. They felt like they were racing to get in the car. It was more of a wobbly jog, comical to any who may have been watching. Thankfully, there were none.

They each slammed their doors shut behind them at the same time and Vic immediately started the engine. He set to the fan and temperature controls, ignored the wipers. They weren't driving anywhere.

"I'll roll us another one in a minute. I gotta warm up a little! Feel like my nips are gonna break off!"

"We sure don't want that."

"Right?"

That 6:00 dose was really kicking in now. Part of it was the cold, part of it was him. It had been a while since she had found herself this excited for a man. Part of her wanted to go for his pants and give him head right there in the car. But that's what you did with a John. Vic wasn't a John. She wanted to fuck him. 

"What kinda music ya like, Vic? Do ya like country?"

"Fucking hate it."

"Oh... I bet you're a classic rock guy, then? Am I right?"

"Yeah, I suppose you could say that. So, if I put some music on will that get you to roll that joint?"

She knew he was only teasing her and responded in kind. "Put on somethin' sexy, maybe I'll give ya a dance", she pouted seductively.

"Yeah? In the car? How you gonna do that?"

"I could show you...", she couldn't resist any longer, reaching over and placing a hand on his crotch, "... show you mine, if you show me yours." She purred over dramatically to keep it playful, but the way she was groping him through his trousers said she wasn't just playing.

"That sounds like a lot of fun, sweetheart, but we got a room for that. Last time I got laid in a car I was seventeen. Let's smoke that joint, then you go get your shower..."

She withdrew her hand with mock offense and then grinned. "You're right. I wanna get good and fucked up, then I am gonna do you right." She pulled out the bag and papers, improvising a tray out of the glove box. It was just beginning to warm up inside the car. When she finished the task, she held it up for Vic to take. "Here...got something else for ya...", as she replaced the bag and papers inside her coat, she fished another bag out, placing it in her lap. "Here, take a couple of these." She handed him two of her oxys and the rest of her Mountain Dew from earlier. "So, where ya wanna smoke that thing, Vic? "

He downed the pills without hesitation. "Gimme a light, will ya? We're gonna smoke it right here in the car. Too fuckin' cold out there!"

"Cool! You want me to crack the windows? I know you don't wanna stink up your car."

"It's okay. Doesn't matter anymore."

They did crack the windows, with the front panel heat at full force. Most of the smoke escaped, but they still managed to create quite a cloud inside the car. Tammy didn't think too much about what changed his mind, chalking it up to being so buzzed. She was feeling no pain herself. The fresh dose of the potent weed, atop the oxys and the drinks, was leaving her tingling all over. All she could think about was getting out of these clothes and into a hot shower. She wanted to be nice and clean for him. 

They smoked two thirds of it, until Vic had a coughing fit. It was enough, he tagged out. Both of them having achieved their stated desire to get really fucked up, they then hastened indoors, to the elevator and to the warmth of room 313 beyond. Left out of the elevator, three quarters of the way down the hall, on the left. Right where the desk said it would be. He took the key cards from his jacket pocket, handed one to Tammy, and then fumbled with the other until the familiar click opened the door. He pushed the door open and bid her to enter.

Vic stepped in right behind her and hit the wall switch on his right. It was as big a reveal to him as it was for Tammy. He hadn't taken the time to check the room earlier. In his intoxicated state he was only vaguely aware that maybe he should have, but all turned out well. The entrance was a very short hallway, with an alcove closet to the right and a full-length mirror opposite. The hall continued for ten feet, until reaching an archway that framed the room beyond. It was standard fare for a Hampton, variations on a theme of taupe, clean, well furnished.  

Tammy passed through the arch and turned to her right, then gasped in shock. After a very short wall the space opened up into the jacuzzi suite. It was a cool, blue tile throughout with a bank of mirrors, a glass doored shower and a whirlpool tub set into the floor. A toilet and sink were partitioned off in one corner with a door. Otherwise, the space was open, looking over a king with plush bedding.

"Oh! Fuck yeah! I'm havin' a bath! This is awesome, Vic!"

Vic followed her and watched on as she rushed to start the bath. It was pretty nice. Better than he'd have expected for Richwood, Kentucky. He'd been surprised they even had such a suite. This one was actually one of two on site.

He'd grabbed a gym bag from the back seat of the car, slung over his left shoulder. He unloaded it, dropping it casually on the bed, and then sat down next to it. The tap was roaring, echoing off of the tile as steam began to rise. Tammy was saying something, but he couldn't make out what it was over the water. She continued testing the water, adjusting the knobs until having it just right. Vic leaned back on the bed, drunk, stoned as fuck and now the oxys were starting to kick in.

Once she'd found the right balance of temperature, Tammy arose to stand over the tub, watching it fill. As the steam gathered, she began to methodically disrobe, keeping her back to him. He knew she was teasing him and he was enjoying the show. Stripped down to the waist she still appeared to be a very small-framed girl. Her back was creamy white skin, without a single blemish. Unlike most young women of the day, there was hardly any ink on her. She had a small, red rose tattoo on her right shoulder. Unencumbered of any top, her wiry mane spilled freely across her slender neck. When she slowly unpeeled her jeans, it was clear this was no girl, but indeed a woman. Her hips were broad and limber, her ass full and firm. Before even seeing the front of her, Vic could tell that she had given birth. At least once. She hadn't made any mention of children and he never asked.

She continued to tease, keeping her back turned to him as she stepped into the tub. He noticed one other tattoo, on her left hip. It was black, maybe a gothic script. It looked like it might be a name, but he didn't get a clear look at it before she melted into the water. She gave out a deep sigh of satisfaction as she swirled about in the tub, finding the right spot to recline before turning on the jets. She had a direct view to Vic over on that bed. Most guys would already have their pants off by now.

"Hey! Whatcha doin' over there? Plenty of room in this bath! Get your clothes off and bring that cock over here!"

Vic could not decline that invitation. Though he could barely stand up, he managed to strip bare in two steps and strut proudly into the bath with a full hard on. For the better part of the next two hours, he proceeded to defile her from head to toe. They started in the tub, moved to the bed and back again. They drained the water and dried... and continued on the bed. She straddled him, grinding against him until she had come at least six more times. She was raw. Spent. 

Vic lay upon his back with her curled up on his right side, her backside pressed against him. He examined the tattoo on her hip more closely.

"What does that say, that tattoo on your hip? Is that a name?"

"No. Just a word. Bail."

He absorbed this in silence. So fucked up. Had to wonder what it meant but could barely form the question. After several minutes it came to him in the fog.

"What... what is that? I mean... what does it mean?"

"Okay, so it's kinda like... it's like this philosophy in a word. Somethin' I got from an old boyfriend. It's like... like it's okay to fuck up, right? No matter what you do, shit will always fuck up, so stop trying so hard for other people. Accept the consequences of being who you are, just "bail" on everything else."

"Whoa! That's some deep shit. Sounds like Bukowski. So, do you believe that?"

"I don't know any more. I must have believed once. I got talked into the tattoo, right?"

Vic was nodding off, thinking. Bail. Accept the consequences of being who you are. It was completely relatable.

Vic never did decide which direction he was going to go. He didn't have to. When this day had started, he only knew he was headed south. Maybe Texas, maybe Florida. He was looking for signs along the way to tell him which.

He had taken four grand out of the bank, what he reckoned was enough for two weeks. If the docs were right, he wouldn't need any more than that. Vic was on a mission to find a good place to die.

When he was first diagnosed, it was already considered that it was likely too late. The tumor had to be classified as inoperable. It wrapped about the spine, assuring that any attempt at surgery would at best result in total paralysis. There were some "hail Mary" options with radiation and chemo, but the only thing these could guarantee were a foreseeable future of nausea and vomiting unto death. If he did nothing? Maybe a couple of weeks. He decided those two weeks were going to be his. All his. Not answering to anyone again, just walking silently into the void.

Sometime in the night Vic just stopped breathing. Tammy had drifted in and out of a slumber, never coming fully awake. She didn't notice that he had not moved until about 3:00AM, when she had to get up to pee. When she returned to the bed, he looked very tempting to her. She decided that she'd try to arouse another round, but very quickly found that something was wrong. He had begun to go cold. At the instant she realized what had happened, she uttered a reflexive "Oh fuck!"

The adrenaline rush of panic is ten times more sobering than any cold air. Tammy had no idea that Vic had been ill in any way. Her thoughts immediately leaped to the frightening conclusion that the oxys, combined with the liquor, had caused his heart to stop. She'd heard of shit like that happening. They were pills that he had got from her, pills that she had without a prescription. Oh fuck, oh fuck! Her heart was pounding. She had rapidly convinced herself to get the fuck out of this room, out of this hotel. Maybe go to Waffle House until the rest of the world woke up.

She forced herself to slow down her breathing. Calm down. Get dressed, gather up all your shit. She hadn't really done anything wrong. She met a guy next door at dinner, came back to his room and fucked him. She had to leave; he was alive when I left. I don't know where he got any pills. I never saw any pills. 

She finished dressing, looked around the room. She would hold on to the bag. Vic couldn't use it. No sense letting the damn cops have it! She looked on the body one last time. Shame. Hell of a good fuck. As she turned away, she stepped on his jacket. It made her freeze for a minute. She could not resist. She knelt down to search inside the pockets. There was a bank envelope with nearly thirty-four hundred dollars in small bills. The cops would probably pocket it anyway. She might as well take it too. 

She couldn't look at him again. She slipped out the door quietly, instinctively looking both ways in the hall before creeping to the stairwell. Once the hall door shut behind her Tammy hustled down those flights of steps and lunged at the exit door, like she was underwater, clawing to the surface. 

Cold! Cold air. The sleet and wind had ended and there was no one on the street. Just the empty, cold night. Tammy cinched up her hood and braced herself for the walk. She could probably make it over to the Waffle House in ten minutes. Fifteen tops. 

On that day Tammy accepted the consequences of who she was. She was a whore with an opiate addiction. Sometimes even a whore is deserving of some kindness. She didn't really know who Vic was, or his story. She had paid him the only kindness she had to give. She was truly sorry that he had died. She thought that maybe, just maybe, this could be a turning point for her. But probably not. She plucked a couple more oxys from inside her coat pocket and choked them down dry. Off to the Waffle House, then. Now it was Thursday.

 

I wonder, is someone trying to tell me something?

 

Okay folks, just some brief musings today...

The conclusion of the gripping short story Bail continues apace. Expect before the end of this week. Maybe even today. Definitely by Friday.

So I have my morning tea, and I am sitting, writing. Like I do. I use these times to block out all the other noise. As a consequence, I often miss weather reports and other reports that may, or may not be of any consequence at all. I consider even weather reports being part of the broader "noise". They have tried to science it up too hard. Forecasting is easy, just look out your window. Doesn't really matter what the weather is doing anywhere else, now does it?

I suddenly realize that my short sleeve shirt ain't getting it done. There is a bit of  a chill on. After taking the precious time to investigate this, I discover that we are under a winter weather alert. Great! When it gets here I'll worry about it. Maybe. No promises.

Well, the stove is all prepared. It's not too cold yet, so I decide to make a change in wardrobe. Going through a dresser drawer of sweatshirts, I spotted one in an olive drab. Perfect. I love dull and understated colors. When I got this thing unfolded it revealed a caption on the front. I love shirts with captions. This thing had for some reason been buried in the drawer. Almost like somebody didn't want me to wear it anymore. The caption on this shirt reads "I hate people". It proclaims my solidarity with Sartre.

I thought about it for almost a whole minute. Okay, more like twenty-five seconds. Maybe I should put the shirt back. I put the shirt back. We just lost Bob Weir. And Scott Adams. They were people. They were good people who weren't haters. So, for a day at least, I can suspend my general disdain for humanity. Plenty of time for that later. With the passing of these two individuals we all need to remind ourselves, that despite all appearances, not everybody on the planet is an asshole. Just most of them.

I opted instead for a heavy, black tee with a Rick and Morty motif. It's Mr. Meseeks proclaiming, "Existence is pain". I love shirts with captions. I can work with this one for today, celebrating the fact that neither Bob nor Scott are feeling any more pain.

The Adventures of Cliff Booth

 

Who is (was) Cliff Booth? And why does it matter?

Quentin Tarantino. You love him or you hate him. Whichever side of that divide one finds themselves on, a consensus is easily formed to say that the man and his work are controversial. It would also be fair to say that much of this controversy stems from the Tarantino hallmark of gratuitous violence. Only those who are uninitiated to the Tarantino film have any right to be outraged at the content. If you have already seen a Tarantino film, then there should be the expectation of over-the-top gore and brutality. Tarantino's career has elevated this type of film to create a genre, bearing the name of one of his most famous films, Pulp Fiction. The thing describes itself.

Now... apologies for the lengthy preamble. It needed to be said before I might continue. Speaking for myself, I am not a fan of most Tarantino films. Just not a fan of the genre, generally speaking. There is one notable exception: 2019's Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. No matter what else is ever said about this film, we can take comfort in the fact that we'll always have the flamethrower.

I went to see the film at the theatre. I had never gone to see any Tarantino film at the theatre in my life. I went expecting that it would be filled to the brim with blood and guts, yet I went, nonetheless. The reason for this is uncomfortable, yet undeniable. Like every other American alive at the time of the Manson Family murders, our lives are inescapably marked by this event. We are driven as a moth to the flame, to anything even adjacent to one of the ugliest episodes in our history. With equal parts shame and morbid curiosity, we can not look away from it. I can admit it. This is what made me want to see this film.

What I witnessed in the theatre had enough of that raw and gritty edge to it, as to clearly identify it as a Tarantino film. Despite this, I was seeing the most un-Tarantino film the man has ever made. This was a rich and brilliant period piece. Most people have this image of the sixties as all peace, love and hippies. It wasn't. 1969 was an exclamation point, viciously slashed upon the portrait of a decade marked by intrigue, assassination and war. That is just the American experience. The average American today could not fathom the horrors of Mao's China during the sixties. This was a violent, ugly decade. Juxtaposed upon all these social paroxysms, there still existed that southern California of the Mamas and Papas' California Dreamin'.  The film captured this dichotomy, subtly and, in true Tarantino fashion, sometimes not so subtly.

When I learned that there was to be a sequel, to be titled The Adventures of Cliff Booth, I was hardly surprised. This didn't seem to be a film upon which one might build a franchise. The choice of Cliff Booth instantly changes this. Brad Pitt's character from the first film was the only one you could really give a shit about. The DiCaprio character, Rick Dalton, was just a dick. I will admit a certain bias with regard to the performers, but if you saw the film, you know what I mean. So, if there was any sequel to be made, I can see no other direction to take it.

I will now attempt to convince you that Cliff Booth's story is a story worth telling. And why. Let's begin with who this man is. Some say the character is inspired by Hollywood stunt legend, Hal Needham. There may be some truth in that, but the character represents so much more than this. Although the little back story we are given for this character is vague, we are at least told that Cliff Booth was a decorated WWII veteran. From this we can piece together that he would have served in the years 1942-45. That would likely place his date of birth somewhere around 1925. That makes the Cliff Booth character of 1969 a man in his mid-forties. More importantly, it places him in that generation of young men who flocked to southern California in those post-war years.

One of the main reasons that this peace and love mythology of the sixties survives, is that the story of the period is given to us solely as a narrative of it's youth. Somebody gave birth to those brats. Somebody housed and fed them, educated them and then turned them loose on the world. That somebody would be Cliff Booth's generation. Even though Cliff doesn't have any children of his own (that we know about), it is Cliff Booth's generation of young men that fathered those hippies. They tried to provide a good upbringing to those kids, there in that southern Californian oasis they had forged with their own hands.

The modern Los Angeles we see in Once upon a time was built by these men in the post-war years. They built the homes and subdivisions; the schools and strip malls; they built the highways, the phone lines, the electric grid. They came for the climate and the pretty girls. And the work. They stayed for the careers, the mortgages, the marriages good or bad. They built much of the modern infrastructure, but more than this, they built a culture that became a beacon to youth for a generation to come.

The image of those men shines to us in celluloid; the sandy-haired, rakish rogue, rugged and self-reliant. A memory of what we used to be. Cliff Booth would almost certainly be dead today. Probably even fifteen years ago. What has died with him is that California of legend that we know from film and song. The hippies and seekers that Cliff Booth's generation spawned, grew into the seventies' "me generation", then later morphed into what Thompson aptly tagged "the generation of swine". The southern California of today is the kingdom of swine, ruled by the children of swine. I'm glad old Cliff isn't around to see it.

The legacy of Cliff Booth's California is not to be found in anything that exists today. Today, roughly a year after the Palisades fires, the legacy of Cliff Booth's California is to be found sifting through the ashes there. Provided one can obtain "permission" to enter.

I am looking forward to the film. I hope that it does not disappoint. I would encourage others to go see it. Or watch it on Netflix, whatever they are doing with the release. That seems a bit unclear right now. I encourage people to see this film for the same reason I would encourage a time traveler to visit 1662. Be sure to see the Dodo before the last one is gone.