Monday, April 30, 2018

Weather warnings










As I write, my County of Hennepin is under two weather alerts. All my little bookmarked weather sites are glowing with a cautionary orange. And I really like these warnings.

The first one shows that we are under a Fire Weather Watch. Apparently the weather and ground conditions are ripe for spreading even the tiniest spark into a raging fire. We are strongly advised to all stop burning garbage in the backyard, and to keep our magnifying glasses carefully in the shade, and that even a weekend barbecue is probably a bad idea.

And usually we would need to be respectful of this warning, and usually I would be. If only it weren't for the second warning. 

We are under a River Flood Warning too!

So go ahead and have a lovely patio bonfire to celebrate the dry and glorious Spring weather. And if it gets out of control, as there's a good chance it will, fear not. The river will be flooding through here momentarily to put it all out.








Sunday, April 29, 2018

Another missing post









So I went out for another Thursday morning walk. I had some blog ideas to come up with. And nothing gets the blog ideas rolling like a bit of incandescent rage. Nothing quite stokes the old genius like the agony of human existence, the pain of being, the sweet burn of injustice. I just had to get that hate train rolling for some raw material, then pound it till it's stretchy and malleable, then shape it into something funny, put a hat on it, and gut it.

So it was just a matter of getting started when I was distracted. I can't remember what exactly it was; a cat walking across the street? The blueness of the sky? A recognition that it was a lovely day to have off? Something sweet my wife said to me, still ringing in my ears, before she went to work? Spring?

And I lost the string.

I had nothing. It was beautiful.





Saturday, April 28, 2018

I could fix that printer if they'd just let me






We have one big public printer at my library for the 50 or 60 people in the downstairs computer area. For years this printer was a great source of trouble, breaking down all the time in dozens of malicious and irritating ways. Then, finally, we got a new printer and it always worked, I mean, outside of a rare, easy to fix jam or two. It was great.

But after a year or more of printer perfection today the printer went down. It was bad. It's still down now, many hours later. During my lunch break it was suggested that I might take a look at it when I could. I agreed. But before I got to it important people were involved; the fix-it-with-baling-wire-and-duct-tape manager, then the handheld devices specialist librarian, and finally the Automation Services staff person who was ultimately responsible for it. It was way beyond me at that point. I was usurped! So I just started saying "I'm telling you, mice got into the printer and chewed through the wires."

I'd see one of them fussing about and I'd mutter "Mark my words, it's mice. Mice chewing the wires."

This went on for awhile. "Mice" I'd say. "Remember these words when you find all the mice."

Finally the three of them were gathered around discussing what to do about this troubled printer. I joined them and waited for my opening. It finally came.

"Set a nice piece of cheese next to it, and it will draw the mice out."

And then I rode off into the sunset.










Friday, April 27, 2018

Peer pressure








Rarely does a day go by here at the library wherein one of my co-workers doesn't come up to me and say "Hey, want to go out to the parking lot and do some meth?"

I have heard meth can be unhealthy for you, so, though I'm glad they asked, I am compelled to say "No, thank you."

If only they would leave it at that. But there's always the "Oh, come on, it's fun and it makes you work faster."

So then I mumble "Sorry, but my body is a temple." Which I immediately regret as i watch them roll their eyes at me and walk away.

I was reading a bit of a nice book of poems here by Baudelaire when a co-worker came up behind me. "Oh, hey." They said. "I love that poem!"

"Me too!" I said, delighted one of my co-workers was also a Baudelaire fan.

"Can I have it?" Asked the co-worker.

"You want the book?"

"No, can I just have that poem?"

So I shrugged and started copying out the poem for this person.

"No, just tear out the page." My co-worker said impatiently.

"Oh." I responded. "I can't. It's a library book."

"Pff." The person said. "Like anyone will notice."

"Sorry, I can't." I mumbled. And my co-worker walked away disgusted with me. Later I saw them whispering with someone and pointing at me.

It's hard to find a friend around here.

Maybe I should have torn the page out. It just didn't seem right somehow.

Later that same day a group of us were at the front desk and one of my managers said in a grand invitiation "Who wants a coffee?"

"Me!" I cried out excitedly.

A couple of other people more reservedly expressed interest, and my boss opened up the cash register and took out a couple of twenties.

"Ka-ching." My boss said.

"Can you just take money from the library like that for coffee?" I asked.

"Oh, c'mon, who's gonna care?"

"No thanks." I mumbled embarassedly. "Don't get me one."

The manager shrugged and said "More for us." But I'm pretty sure one of my other co-workers muttered "killjoy" at me under their breath.

Then I had to jealously watch everyone drinking their super fancy coffee drinks while no one talked to me for the rest of the day.

Finally, at the end of the day, when a big group of us were leaving, someone loudly said "Who wants to go downtown, get drunk, and make fun of immigrants?"

Everyone cheered, but I said "Sorry, I can't." in a low voice. 

And someone said "Like we were even asking you." Then they all left together. 

I got in my car and listened to Keith Jarrett on my stereo and maybe cried a little.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying I'm better, or more moral than anyone. I'm not saying I'm right and they're wrong.



I'm just different.












Thursday, April 26, 2018

Why they come







It's a beautiful late April day, almost 70 degrees, sunny, and the last snow, which a mere week ago today (as I write) was a foot and a half on the ground, is outside melting down to bizarre, misshapen nubs. The trees, usually contemplative and wide thinkers, are obsessing about budding and nothing else. And the grass, well the grass, who gives a fuck about the grass.

And inside the library it is packed. Every seat, every stool, every comfy chair is spoken for. Row after row of people are quietly poking away raptly on a computer or device, whether their own or one of ours. And as I push my cart of books along for a little afternoon shelving my heart cries out:

"Go outside everyone. I have to be here all day, you don't!"

But my head wonders:

"Why do all these people come here just for a chair and a small slice of counter, to wile a day away on a computer?"

But as usual around here I barely pose the question before I make up an answer:


In America those with time have nowhere to go, and those with somewhere to go have no time.








Wednesday, April 25, 2018

The sweet karma












When I think about Karma I think of its punitive nature, like how I might angrily kick an innocent book that I dropped and then hurt my foot kicking it. But Karma is neutral. Karma is a law of equality, of getting out what one puts in. I was reminded of this today.

Over where we put things to be delivered to other library branches some of what we send are electric powered rising bins of books. These we plug in as they wait there so that the batteries that raise the bottom of the bin up will be charged when they get to the other branch. Last night I pushed a full bin over to this delivery area and plugged it in. But I noticed it was the last plug. As there are no deliveries on the weekend, the next person with a full bin would have to scrounge up another cord and awkwardly plug it in. Those plugs and cord aren't easy to get to.

So I sighed. I went and scrounged up another cord, squeezed around a couple of bins, and plugged it in. Then I carefully lay the cord on top of one of the bins to be readily available for the the next person who had to push over a bin for this branch.

Twenty-two hours later, this person, by pure chance, was me.

Sometimes I really like me.






Tuesday, April 24, 2018

I take a powder for the truth










Be careful. You are on the Internet. Everyone here is lying to you.

Your "friends" on facebook, The Guardian Online and the New York Times, the food bloggers with their sumptuous pictures, Reddit, the artists, the people selling and the people pretending not to sell. All lies.

And you keep your eye out for it. You think you're wise. Don't we all think we're wise? But as you keep your eyes on the lies they get you on the rebound: uncovering a lie you spotted with the help of a lie spotter is a lie itself. The opposite of a lie is not the truth. Art is not the truth. Skepticism is not seeing.

"So, what?" You cry out. "Do we believe nothing? Should I give up the Internet?"

Of course you should.





"Well what about you? What about this. Is this clerkmanifesto all lies then?" You ask.



"Hello?" You ask.






"Hello?"














Monday, April 23, 2018

To the victors go the spoils








The satire and spirituality employed here is beyond the ken of any Trump voter. And I say this not to gloat or to condemn, but merely as a flat fact to point out that there are no Donald Trump supporters reading this. It is possible that one or two could drift in from the Internet, but there is a difference between reading and looking at the words, a big difference I sometimes disquietingly encounter in my journeyman travels of the Internet and whenever I pick up a copy of Finnegan's Wake.

That said, as reprehensible, mentally ill, and disturbed as is the current President, we must offer credit where credit is due. And when a tiny ray of hope shines out of the Koreas,  even though we might hate to do it, it is only just and fair to say that somehow this is, at least partly, a triumph of Donald Trump, though it be nestled among so many of his failures.

Why am I sensitive to this? Why, against my inclinations, am I scrupulous in sounding this correction? It is because I fall prey to the very same device. I too am victimized in this approach. For whatever just complaints one might have about this blog, a negativity and dismissiveness haunts my success here, and robs me of the full credit clerkmanifesto deserves.

When you cut your finger, put a band-aid on it, then later read a post or two from clerkmanifesto and soon find your cut is healing up do you say to yourself "Wow, that blog healed me."?

You should.

When you find a dollar bill, when someone smiles at you, when you buy some fruit at the store and it is particularly good, I deserve some of the credit for that. After all, I have written about these and so much more. I write about all things and so don't I affect all things? I contribute to sunshine, the color of blooming flowers, the smell of autumn leaves, and the kindness of strangers. I am largely responsible for the quality of music, good luck, and the fact that your house didn't burn down. I'm pretty sure the taste of lavender is a product of my writing, at least partly, I mean, it stands to reason. I mentioned lavender, didn't I? I make clouds puffy and evocative. I make good dreams and the seasons change. Crescent moons are a result of what I write, admittedly only partially, but then what is a crescent moon other than part of a moon anyway? I assist water in flowing and I soften the edges of night. I prevent the end of the world and cheese shortages and a painful kidney ailment that you would have probably suffered had you not read this.

So thank goodness you read this!

And maybe, just a little, thank me. I mean, just as a suggestion.

And I'm not saying I'm wholly responsible for these things, but they happen, and here I am. Which is pretty conclusive. One must admit that it's hard not to see these connections. Nevertheless people turn their heads away. The newspapers refuse to site me over and over again. The Internet natters on incessantly about it's nonsense and rarely, almost never, turns your head towards me. And the President of the United States, in all his foolish self absorption, has never once said: 

"Not everything that is great about America is due to the writing of Feldenstein Calypso, but surely a lot of it is."

Which is unfair. 

So unfair.









Sunday, April 22, 2018

How I write










In the back room here, on the computer work table used by the person working on the giant automated check in machine, there is, curiously, a little bin that fills with things like toys and playing cards and bookmarks. Currently, for some reason, there is also a ping pong ball in that bin. Every once in awhile I like to take the ping pong ball out and hold it. It's satisfying. And I walk up to one of my co-workers, hold up the ping pong ball, and I say "Do you want to play a quick game? We just need a table, a net, and two paddles."

My co-workers, as far as I can tell, are mildly amused by this because it is a joke. 

On the other hand, these are the same principals, more or less, by which I write the great majority of these blog posts.










Saturday, April 21, 2018

You never really know what you'll get










The month of March passed here on clerkmanifesto and with it passed the five year anniversary of this blog. Five years! Five years of daily blog posts. I meant to note it but I was too busy blogging. Fortunately I have been able to take a moment out now, belatedly, from my busy blogging schedule, in order to stop blogging and properly celebrate here this auspicious occasion.

I am? Really? Blogging right now?

Oh boy! You're right! Look at my little typing fingers go!

Well, there in itself is a lesson for everyone. Blog every single day for five years and your typing speed goes from a modest 41 words a minute to a blazing 44 words a minute.


Once, shortly before the start of this blog, in the late 1980's, there was a popular book called Do What You Love and the Money Will Follow. My friends and I mocked it because, though we wished it was true, we were suspicious that it didn't apply to the likes of us. Confidently suspicious. Around this time a phrase from a movie "If you build it they will come" was also popular. A trifling 25 or so years later these phrases were shifting around optimistically in my mind as I began the profoundly dedicated undertaking that you see playing out here before your eyes. In my wildest dreams though I never imagined they would come true the way they did here, primarily concerning typing speed, with "A Slightly Faster Typing Speed" standing in for "the Money" (Do What You Love and A Slightly Faster Typing Speed Will Follow) and "a slightly faster typing speed" standing in for "they" ("If you build it a slightly faster typing speed will come").

I'm not complaining, exactly, with the added bonus that I can do it a little bit faster than I used to.









Friday, April 20, 2018

The hottest new literary genre










We think of literary genres as largely fixed and immutable: Mystery, Romance, Horror, Science Fiction, and so on. And largely they are. This makes it all the more exciting when one stumbles upon a whole new genre. This has just happened to me!

I have been reading a lot lately, hiding inside the house with my wife, on the couch, while a flowerless April hurled endless snow at us and cackled maniacally. Well cackle all you want, oh Deranged Spring, we have double paned windows, central heating, and very nice neighbors with a snowblower! We also have some bottles of wine.

Or, we did.

Anyway, the point is that I read a lot. And at one point in all this reading I read two wonderful books in a row. Do you know how often that happens?

Sadly, hardly ever.

But these two were great. One was a tiny bit of a cheat, since it was a re-read, but it was still great. And they were nothing like each other. One was a Juvy Fiction family story of surpassing charm and perfection, called The Vanderbeekers of 141st Street. The other was a smart, supernatural secret agency thriller called The Rook that our library system already shamefully owns too few copies of.

So where, you ask, does this new genre come in.

Ah, good question. In both books the main characters own a pet rabbit!

"That's an interesting coincidence, but how does owning a rabbit constitute a genre?" You inquire.

Oh, it's hard to explain, but as soon as you read one you'll totally know.
















Thursday, April 19, 2018

Hate leaves its mark










It is amazing how much you can hate someone for shelving in your row.

There are a lot of rows to shelve in. Plus one can usually pick a cart in another section from where the other person is shelving. Plus if you go upstairs and it turns out you picked the wrong cart, and you refuse to go back downstairs and get a new cart, you can shelve out of order to keep clear of the person that was there first! 

In fact, the only really awful, truly hideous, mentally ill, vicious, blind, and ugly thing to do is to just go ahead and shelve right on the heels of the person who was there first.

This is what a person just did to me!

It is amazing how much you can hate someone for shelving in your row.

Plus he was shelving in non fiction instead of where he was assigned in fiction. I found this out after suspecting it and checking the schedule downstairs when I was done with my cart. This inflamed my righteous indignation.

Plus I had had too much coffee.

I was mad. I couldn't talk to him for minutes. Then I could.

And in a couple of hours I probably won't even be mad anymore.

But it's likely I'll never fully respect him ever again.








Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Professional comedian








A group of us library circulation workers were having a bit of a chat in the workroom of the library. Up for discussion was a kids' book covered in pee and a long list of strange diseases that one of us had contracted over the years from working in the children's room. There were nail fungi, nose infections, and something... weird. The person thus affected then proclaimed something I've often considered over the years:

"After working in this environment, with this level of exposure, I've probably built up fantastic immunity."

I was eating a rather tasty strip of maple smoked salmon when I quipped "Yes, this is why the peasants of 11th century Romania lived such long and healthy lives."

As I said this a little bit of the salmon went flying out of my mouth and landed on a chair in front of me.

I was hoping it would make my comment funnier, but it didn't.









Tuesday, April 17, 2018

Concerning a foot and a half of snow falling in mid April









Sugar is bad for you.

Suffering is inevitable.

Good in no way necessarily triumphs over evil.

Nothing indicates that God, if there is one, cares all that much.

We are all going to die.

It snowed a foot and a half in Minneapolis in the middle of April.








I don't want to talk about it.






Monday, April 16, 2018

The thing we get wrong about shelving











It is the hour before my dinner break, and I am shelving in fiction. As I am quite eager to get to dinner I promptly commence with my shelving.

First up is a cart of straight, non genre fiction, and I tear right through it; no stopping to read or browse. It's boom boom boom, shelve neatly and accurately, and soon it will be break time. Boom, boom, boom, the cart is done!

Unfortunately only 20 minutes have passed while I shelved. So I go downstairs and grab another cart, this one for the genre fiction. This cart too I shelve right through. I want to get it done because I am racing towards my dinner break. It is not long, at such a pace, before this cart too is empty.

Sadly only another 20 minutes have passed. I still have 20 minutes to go. And it is only here that the obvious dawns on me:

The speed at which I work has absolutely no effect on the speed of time.

Which is most of the reason why I am now standing here in the stacks, with an empty cart, writing this.







Sunday, April 15, 2018

Bleu d'Auvergne










People say to me:

"You write one of the most influential cheese blogs on the Internet and yet in over 1,900 posts you have yet to write a single one of them about the greatest of all cheeses, Bleu d'Auvergne!"

To which I reply:

"You think this is a cheese blog?"

"Isn't it?" They ask trepidatiously.

"No." I say.

"Are you sure about that?" They ask, nodding their head slowly and looking piercingly into my eyes.

"Which cheeses do you think I've influenced?" I ask, trying to make the proverbial silk purse and because the idea of me having influence is strangely irresistible.

"Well certainly not Bleu d'Auvergne!" They cry hotly.

Fair enough.


Bleu d'Auvergne is a cows' milk French blue cheese on the more creamy, less salty side. It is so good that I can't even, I, it's impossible to, just, well, really, it's all too, I don't know, I mean, well, it's, well, whew. I think you get the picture.

Also it's not even very expensive.

In Paris when they have just two or three cheeses on some cafe menu one of them is almost always Bleu d'Auvergne.

"Why is that?" One asks.

Because they know what they're doing in those Paris Cafes. They really know what they're doing!

"So should I have some of this Bleu d'Auvergne?" One asks.

"Have you taken my advice on these matters before?" I inquire curiously.

"Of course." One says excitedly. "You are one of the most influential cheese bloggers on the Internet!"

"Wow." I say. 


Wow.














Saturday, April 14, 2018

One last post about Winter in Spring








I went once again for my four mile walk across the city. It was late morning. It was chilly and I was wearing my beautiful new Barcelona Football Club hat little knowing that my team would suffer one of their most humiliating defeats in their long history that very afternoon. But it was still gray out, and not knowing what was about to happen was no protection because the future managed to mysteriously seep back into the day.

So did the past for that matter. 

I did not try to keep my spirits up.

But when I was passing under the railroad bridge I saw snowflakes.

Just a few.

I thought this was funny. I laughed. We were well into Spring and even though Winter kept belatedly hammering us there was no snow in the forecast. It was going to warm up. These were just the tiny, fluke snowflakes that would let me say later, in mock outrage, "It snowed on me!"

Ha ha ha ha ha.

In 15 minutes it was blizzarding.

It was beautiful.











Friday, April 13, 2018

What begins innocently ends in swearing









It is a morning in Minnesota in mid April. The temperature is 24 degrees. I have to walk four miles through the city. There is snow everywhere.

The trees are white. The streets are white and unplowed. The lawns are all white. And the sidewalks, the miles of them, are white, all white, and also a little slippery. It's about an inch of snow, evenly distributed, and uniformly unshoveled.

Yesterday afternoon and evening it fell and slowly piled up. In January it would have been a nuisance snow hardly worth the breath of complaint. Every walk would have been shoveled clean to gray cement practically before it was fully light out.

But this is not January. It's April. And today an entire city woke up, looked out the windows, and as one they said: "Fuck it. Just... fuck it."








Thursday, April 12, 2018

Name dropping
















People ask me what I'm like at my job. I mean reading this it's easy to see what I'm like as a writer. It's even possible to see what I am like a person, to a degree, but it can be difficult to suss out just what I'm like at the front desk of my library. Fortunately I can easily answer this question; I am a great deal like Rick, from Casablanca. I mean, without all the "Play it, Sam" stuff. More like how he runs the bar and deals with Nazis, and the way he secretly has a heart of gold and all.

Well, that might not be the best example. It might not tell the full picture. Perhaps a better example would be Holden Caufield, but sort of combined with Spencer Tracy from Captains Courageous. But all of that is tempered by a touch of Shane.

Actually, there is a great deal of Shane in how I work the desk of my library. In fact, Shane kind of sums it up. I am exactly like Shane, the retired gunslinger, here at the library.

Except without the firearms.

Unless...

I'm quite a bit like the Dude, Jeff Bridges in The Big Lebowski, Frodo in Lord of the Rings, well, also and Gandalf, and a tiny bit like Gollum. Willy Wonka in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. The Cheshire Cat. Coyote, both in Native American Mythology and in relation to roadrunners. Lionel Messi! Bugs Bunny! Daffy Duck! Chief Red Cloud! Albert Einstein! Shackleton! Fonzi! Pooh!  Mork! Kvothe! Robin Hood!

Wait, let me take a breath. I may have muddied the waters. Let me think for a minute.

I know.

Only one figure can sum it up.


Snoopy. 

That's really it. That's who I am here. Snoopy. End of story.






















Or maybe Charlie Brown.









Eeyore?












Wednesday, April 11, 2018

Dark dream











Talking about back pain is like describing a dream to someone. One feels it, but it is already so difficult to describe to oneself, how could another understand the details of how it works?

So I won't try too much to explain here.

Let's say that I went for a morning walk and suddenly something deep in my back started slowly to erupt. With it came terror, partly from how inscrutable it is and partly from not knowing how enormous the explosion is going to be. Like a magical talisman I said "Pain is my friend, pain is my friend." as calmly as I could under the circumstances. I tried to breathe. I massaged it as I could, as much as I could. And unbidden I imagined this, almost itself like a dream:

I go to Heaven. 

"Welcome." Says the angel. "Is there anything you'd like to know?"

"Yes." I respond. "All these dozens of back injuries, hundreds of them, with patterns and without patterns, seemingly the result of some movement, and then seemingly the result of none, out of the blue, excruciating, or mild, running for months, or running for five minutes. I long to know, what caused them?"

And the angel answered "I don't know."

"I don't understand. Isn't this heaven? How can you not know?"

And the angel said "They only know in hell."







Tuesday, April 10, 2018

Obscure forms of library humor









This is from a very minute branch of library humor: Community Program Room humor. It's hard to find jokes about Community Program Rooms, if, I mean, you were to go looking, which, let's face it, you wouldn't.


So, anyway, I went into our community program room to help the group using it. It smelled great in there. They had two beautifully spread tables all decked out in tablecloths and filled with slices of bread. They also had bowls of rich looking,  delicious golden butter and piles of preserves and jams made from a dozen fruits. The bread slices were from a delightful cornucopia of different loaves; whole wheat, semolinas, challahs, rye. And every single thick slice of bread was perfectly warmed and crisped, some with gorgeous grill marks, not a single one too dark or too light, all filling the room with their heady aromas. It was mouthwatering.

But really, what else would one expect at a meeting of this group; they were The Toastmasters.




Monday, April 9, 2018

My first blog post with this title










Someone donated a little lunch box set of games to my library here. It's sitting in our always fascinating, half trash heap of recent donations. It's called My First Scandinavian Games.

I thought that even though this old set looks designed for small children, I'm in my fifties and these would still be my first Scandinavian games.

Then, reflecting further I thought, yes, sure, and if someone brought us a book of poems written by lizards they would be my first book of poems by lizards too! And I put my hands on my hips.

Then, reflecting even further, I raced over to the computer to look up poems by lizards on the Internet.

I didn't find any poems by lizards, just one by Federico Garcia Lorca. It had this in it near the end:


You will have time
to look at the stars
when the worms are eating you
at their leisure.


No lizard would write that!

But then, I wondered, maybe there is no poetry by lizards.

Surely that can't be right.

And then it came to me. Of course there's poetry by lizards. Lizards just don't use the Internet.








Sunday, April 8, 2018

Groundhog day in America









What day is it?

Yes, yes, what day is April 8?

It's Groundhog Day in America!

Everyday is Groundhog Day in America.


"I thought Groundhog Day was February 2."

It is indeed, and it's today, and yesterday. Amazements of amazements, it is tomorrow too. 

The newspapers all say so. 

An outrage has taken place and it is emblazoned in the headlines. Trump has mocked someone. A tax bill giving massive amounts to the rich is passed. Someone is fired in the executive branch. The President is saying a string of unhinged things that, try as we might, we can't assimilate. He tells an egregious and obvious lie. Aides are found guilty of crimes. His election was run by cheating and graft. It's all too horrible. What will we do?

It's Groundhog Day in America. Just wait until morning and it will never have happened. Our palates are all cleared to enjoy the new outrage fresh. We are finally free of history. Such a burden, that history.

Everyday all over America all the newspeople and anyone who can see or care found that there was too much, too much madness, too much stupidity, too much immorality, too much cruelty, too much greed, too much narcissism. How could they say 'President Trump' without weeping, with a straight face? How could they act normal? If a hundred statements are lies what will we do with the 101st? How will we play the game of President and Press and Democracy. There is no way unless we start over fresh each day. 

And so each morning just before we wake he is pardoned. If the President isn't brought down by evening we start over fresh the next day, Groundhog Day. Maybe he'll be a good President this time. Who knows? It's morning and everything is new again. Anything can happen.

Of course the dream is that someone out there is playing the Bill Murray role and his enlightenment will free us. I have heard Mueller's name batted around for this part, but maybe it's someone else. Maybe it's no one.

It's not us though. We are the townspeople. We do not grow old. We cannot learn. And everyday is the same.

Everyday?

What day is it?

Yes, yes, what day is April 8?

It's Groundhog Day in America!

Everyday is Groundhog Day in America.


"I thought Groundhog Day was February 2."

It is indeed, and it's today, and yesterday. Tomorrow too. The newspapers all say so. 

An outrage has taken place and it is emblazoned in the headlines. Trump has mocked someone. A tax bill giving massive amounts to the rich is passed. Someone is fired in the executive branch. The President is saying a string of unhinged things that, try as we might, we can't assimilate. He tells an egregious and obvious lie. Aides are found guilty of crimes. His election was run by cheating and graft. It's all too horrible. What will we do?

It's Groundhog Day in America. Just wait until morning and it will never have happened. Enjoy the new outrage fresh. We are finally free of history. Such a burden, that history.

Everyday all over America all the newspeople and anyone who can see or care here found that there was too much, too much madness, too much stupidity, too much immorality, too much cruelty, too much narcissism. How could they say 'President Trump' without weeping, with a straight face? How could they act normal? If a hundred statements are lies what will we do with the 101st? How will we play the game of President and Press and Democracy. There is no way unless we start over fresh each day. 

And so each morning he is pardoned. If the President isn't brought down by evening we start over fresh the next day, Groundhog Day. Maybe he'll be a good President this time. Who knows? It's morning and everything is new again. Anything can happen.

Of course the dream is that someone out there is playing the Bill Murray role and his enlightenment will free us. I have heard Mueller's name batted around for this part, but maybe it's someone else.

It's not us though. We are the townspeople. We do not grow old. We cannot learn. And everyday is the same.

Everyday?

What day is it?

Yes, yes, what day is April 8?

It's Groundhog Day in America!

Everyday is Groundhog Day in America.


"I thought Groundhog Day was February 2."

It is indeed, and it's today, and yesterday. Tomorrow too. The newspapers all say so. 

An outrage has taken place and it is emblazoned in the headlines. Trump has mocked someone. A tax bill giving massive amounts to the rich is passed. Someone is fired in the executive branch. The President is saying a string of unhinged things that, try as we might, we can't assimilate. He tells an egregious and obvious lie. Aides are found guilty of crimes. His election was run by cheating and graft. It's all too horrible. What will we do?

It's Groundhog Day in America. Just wait until morning and it will never have happened. Enjoy the new outrage fresh. We are finally free of history. Such a burden, that history.

Everyday all over America all the newspeople and anyone who can see or care here found that there was too much, too much madness, too much stupidity, too much immorality, too much cruelty, too much narcissism. How could they say 'President Trump' without weeping, with a straight face? How could they act normal? If a hundred statements are lies what will we do with the 101st? How will we play the game of President and Press and Democracy. There is no way unless we start over fresh each day. 

And so each morning he is pardoned. If the President isn't brought down by evening we start over fresh the next day, Groundhog Day. Maybe he'll be a good President this time. Who knows? It's morning and everything is new again. Anything can happen.

Of course the dream is that someone out there is playing the Bill Murray role and his enlightenment will free us. I have heard Mueller's name batted around for this part, but maybe it's someone else.

It's not us though. We are the townspeople. We do not grow old. We cannot learn. And everyday is the same.

Everyday?

What day is it?

Yes, yes, what day is April 8?

It's Groundhog Day in America!

Everyday is Groundhog Day in America.


"I thought Groundhog Day was February 2."

It is indeed, and it's today, and yesterday. Tomorrow too. The newspapers all say so. 

An outrage has taken place and it is emblazoned in the headlines. Trump has mocked someone. A tax bill giving massive amounts to the rich is passed. Someone is fired in the executive branch. The President is saying a string of unhinged things that, try as we might, we can't assimilate. He tells an egregious and obvious lie. Aides are found guilty of crimes. His election was run by cheating and graft. It's all too horrible. What will we do?

It's Groundhog Day in America. Just wait until morning and it will never have happened. Enjoy the new outrage fresh. We are finally free of history. Such a burden, that history.

Everyday all over America all the newspeople and anyone who can see or care here found that there was too much, too much madness, too much stupidity, too much immorality, too much cruelty, too much narcissism. How could they say 'President Trump' without weeping, with a straight face? How could they act normal? If a hundred statements are lies what will we do with the 101st? How will we play the game of President and Press and Democracy. There is no way unless we start over fresh each day. 

And so each morning he is pardoned. If the President isn't brought down by evening we start over fresh the next day, Groundhog Day. Maybe he'll be a good President this time. Who knows? It's morning and everything is new again. Anything can happen.

Of course the dream is that someone out there is playing the Bill Murray role and his enlightenment will free us. I have heard Mueller's name batted around for this part, but maybe it's someone else.

It's not us though. We are the townspeople. We do not grow old. We cannot learn. And everyday is the same.

Everyday?

What day is it?

Yes, yes, what day is April 8?

It's Groundhog Day in America!

Everyday is Groundhog Day in America.


"I thought Groundhog Day was February 2."

It is indeed, and it's today, and yesterday. Tomorrow too. The newspapers all say so. 

An outrage has taken place and it is emblazoned in the headlines. Trump has mocked someone. A tax bill giving massive amounts to the rich is passed. Someone is fired in the executive branch. The President is saying a string of unhinged things that, try as we might, we can't assimilate. He tells an egregious and obvious lie. Aides are found guilty of crimes. His election was run by cheating and graft. It's all too horrible. What will we do?

It's Groundhog Day in America. Just wait until morning and it will never have happened. Enjoy the new outrage fresh. We are finally free of history. Such a burden, that history.

Everyday all over America all the newspeople and anyone who can see or care here found that there was too much, too much madness, too much stupidity, too much immorality, too much cruelty, too much narcissism. How could they say 'President Trump' without weeping, with a straight face? How could they act normal? If a hundred statements are lies what will we do with the 101st? How will we play the game of President and Press and Democracy. There is no way unless we start over fresh each day. 

And so each morning he is pardoned. If the President isn't brought down by evening we start over fresh the next day, Groundhog Day. Maybe he'll be a good President this time. Who knows? It's morning and everything is new again. Anything can happen.

Of course the dream is that someone out there is playing the Bill Murray role and his enlightenment will free us. I have heard Mueller's name batted around for this part, but maybe it's someone else.

It's not us though. We are the townspeople. We do not grow old. We cannot learn. And everyday is the same.

Everyday?