Tuesday, February 06, 2007


BIRD: You OK, dude?

BUFFALO: You seen "Ground Hog Day", Birdy?

BIRD: Nope.

BUFFALO: Dude, get it. It's seminal.

BIRD: Okey-dokes.

BUFFALO: Woke up this morning with that "Ground Hog Day" feeling.

BIRD: Xplain, pliz, Lucy.

BUFFALO: The lesson of "Ground Hog Day" is that every day presents a unique opportunity to turn your life around and make something of yourself. . . But come to think of it, the whole idea of one "making something" of oneself is totally absurd, for we are already something, even if that something is no more clearly articulated than the incoherent ramblings of a semi-literate world leader. Ground Hog Day is an opportunity for all of us to get in touch with the Cosmos, to look inwardly and find the spark of divinity that lives within us, hiding like a. . . well, like a groundhog. . . just waiting for its cue to slither out of its hole like a disenchanted trouser snake, hell-bent on catching a glimpse of its own wee shadow. . . a shadow that indicates the presence of the Sun. It's never been clear to me why the groundhog's shadow is not regarded as an harbinger of Spring instead of an ill omen dictating that we must endure another six weeks of winter. Baffling. Still there, Birdman?

BIRD: Riveted to me seat. Opening up the popcorn... now!

BUFFALO: There is it, a half-witted tradition that goes on and on and on, like "Ground Hog Day" itself, operating on sheer inertia. And yet, as crazy and tedious as it might seem, there is a kind of wisdom in it. Bill Murray's caught in a time warp of his own making. His incredible arrogance, vanity, and insensitivity have twisted the space around him so severely that it results in a distortion of the Time-Space Continuum itself. By his own unwitting design, Phil Connors, a.k.a. Punxsutawney Phil, creates a time loop from which he cannot escape – or so he believes. At first Phil is as stunned as a fish that has encountered an M-80 tossed into its pond by a sadistic angler that is eight sheets to the wind, tanked out on Bud Lite and Jack Daniels. He seeks psychiatric help. A clueless therapist asks him to come back "tomorrow". He buries his throbbing head in a pillow and slam dunks it with his fist, over and over again, much like Ground Hog Day itself. Ah, but then Phil sees the light. . . well, more like a night-light. . . he uses the time loop to seduce various local ladies of easy virtue, until he tires of this pajama game, for it is Andie who’s captured his crooked heart. But when he tries to seduce her, he has no more success than Richard Benjamin in “Portnoy’s Complaint” when John Carradine (as God) looks down upon him from a lofty podium and bellows, “Don’t try to bullshit ME, Portnoy!” But, I disinvest. Still there?

BIRD: Yep. Could you speak a wincy bincy quincy bit louder, for posterity, like?

BUFFALO: Sure. Well, when Phil finally convinces Andie that he’s trapped in a chronological Moebius strip, her take is “Gee, Phil, I don’t know. . . maybe it’s not a curse, maybe it’s a blessing.” And of course, it is. A chance to relive one day over and over again until you perfect it, and yourself as well. I have donated my alarm clock to the Department of Homeland Insecurity and in its stead I’ve placed my portable DVD player, in which I’ve inserted a copy of “Ground Hog Day” – cued up to the scene where Phil’s clock radio flips to 6:00 AM for the first time and he is awakened by Sonny and Cher singing “I’ve Got You, Babe.” From this day forward, I shall make every day Ground Hog Day, and I suggest that we all do the same. So, when I found Sparky in the shower this morning...

BIRD: Sparky?

BUFFALO: Yeah, Sparky. When I found him in the shower practising moves a contortionist would baulk at, I came straight out and told him:
"For the love of God, man, extract your cranial appendage from your rectal orifice, unhand that defenseless rodent, flush those useless meds down the toilet and go out and find yourself a new girlfriend before you go blind or have to start shaving your palms. Self-abuse is not only useless, amigo, but unnecessary. You can get all the abuse you want, with little effort on your part." Here endeth the sermon.

BIRD: Amen.

WATSON: I say, Holmes.

HOLMES: Yes, Watson?

WATSON: What on earth are those two good for nothings going on about now?

HOLMES: Haven't the foggiest... yet! But it's all going down in my little blue book. Now get down to Blockbusters and rent out that confounded film, will you, old chap? I believe it holds the key to the auld Buffalo's salivation. Chop, chop. We haven't got all day.

MRS HUDSON: A Mr Sparky to see you, Mr Sherlock.

HOLMES: Oh, goody Woody. Send him in.

No comments: