How much fun do we have on our Groundhog weekends?
I’m actually not permitted to say, but I thought I’d offer yinz guys this glimpse.
Remember meeting @drunkdude69 at Podcamp? He’s the one responsible for this gem, which is only the greatest song ever written about Punxsutawney:
Need a little — just a little — more backstory? You’ll find it here.
Hi. My name is Uncle Crappy, and it’s been six days since my last post.
(Hi, Uncle Crappy.)
In and of itself, six days isn’t a big deal for me — in fact, I used to take longer breaks, intentional or not, pretty regularly. But I did just promise a couple weeks ago that I was shooting for 20 posts a month in 2010, and at this pace, I’m not going to be close for January.
But that’s not the real issue. For the last week or so, I’ve felt a little out of sorts, and I’m not sure why. Some stuff is different, some stuff is the same; I don’t really have anything to be seriously bothered over.
Still. Something ain’t right.
Wow. That’s a lot of bitching. Sorry about that. Clearly, I have some stuff to figure out, and I don’t need to do it all here while you guys patiently (?) wait on me to get my shit together. I have a few exercises in mind to get me going here again; in the meantime, I’ll be over here working on the rest of it.
And: Anyone know where I can get a cheap ukulele?
If you are of the Groundhog persuasion, you’ll want to go here for a tantalizing taste of what’s to come the weekend of February 5, 6 and 7.
Or you could just check your email. We’ll have some details there too.
UPDATE, Tuesday afternoon: The email is out and the FogHogBlog has been updated. Wooo!
Bang:
@ I’ve seen Santonio do that before. Over and over and over.
@ Thanks to the Steelers’ meager 3-0 lead at the end of the first quarter, I was a winner in the office pool. I may or may not be spending my winnings on hookers and blow.
@ Actually, I didn’t win enough to even think about hookers and blow. But a case of nice beer isn’t out of the question.
@ Unless The Wife asks about the money. In that case: savings account. (Honest, honey!)
@ I’m having some kind of mild-but-sudden allergy problem. And I just ran out of Kleenex. Help.
@ In Punxsutawney, a chunkier-looking Phil was blinded by all the Terrible Towels in the audience on Gobbler’s Knob and thought he saw his shadow. That, of course, means I’ll be skiing for another six weeks. At least.
@ We’re having a low-key Groundhog Day. No FOG party this year. And other than dragging myself out of bed to watch the Punxy broadcast on PCN after working my normal late shift on Sunday, we weren’t planning on any official observations.
@ We had a kick-ass time with HP on Saturday, starting with about two hours in the Strip. It reminded me of Christmas, but with different colors:
@ The original impetus for HP’s visit didn’t turn out to be much of a Groundhog celebration either. We were ready to stop at the Harris, until we drove by and noticed that there was no one standing outside along the beautiful ice bar they had set up on the patio. I’d guess that party got going later, but we didn’t feel like waiting; we headed instead to AA’s Living Room and waited for the rest of the YinzTeamers to show up. And they did. And it was good.
@ A word about AA’s Living Room. That’s a great little bar, and I’d say that even if I didn’t have a good friend who is unofficially in charge of the place.
@ One Groundhog thing we may do tonight: re-create the cheeseburgers from Nick’s Corner Lunch in Punxy. Mmmm.
@ Seriously: Congrats, Pittsburgh folks. That was a great game and a great season, and yinz should enjoy it.
@ Now. Nobody talk to me about pro football until September. Thanks.
Punxsutawney loses its mind on Saturday, when members of the Inner Circle gather around a stump outside of town to consult with a groundhog named Phil about the weather for the next six weeks. Phil and the guys in tuxedos will share the moment with a few thousand close friends, television crews from Pittsburgh and beyond, and if the network morning shows have their shit together, a national television audience.
At the same time, The Wife and I will be preparing for our own observation of Groundhog weekend. As members of the Fraternal Order of the Groundhog, this is the biggest weekend of the year, an extension of the Holiday Season when dozens of our members converge on castle in a ritzy suburb of Columbus for our convention, communion, reduction and ritual brain-cell sacrifice.
No. Really.
This started in 1975 as a wintertime gathering of friends from Columbus and Cleveland. Somewhere along the line, the group agreed that the party should revolve around Groundhog Day. A leader — the Grandhog — emerged, and rituals and traditions began to take hold. After a couple years, they got tired of looking at each other and decided to accept new members. Newbies were required to serve as pledges, who bootlick the elders, entertain the entire group and suffer ceremonial abuse. If they withstood the barrage, they were welcomed as new members of the burrow.
We went through a period of time when this thing was huge with overall membership probably close to 200. The party used to be held in a farmhouse outside of Mansfield, which was overrun by at least 50 people on the weekend closest to Groundhog Day. Bonfires. Hogwash. The parties are a little smaller these days, but most of the traditions remain intact, regardless of where we gather.
So what is all this about? It’s difficult to explain to the uninitiated — in fact, the Grandhog warns against too much public disclosure, because, he says, “It just doesn’t translate.” But it is about friends, altered states of consciousness, the primal stirring of gathering around a wintertime bonfire and the spiritual awakening that comes when you turn over the next six weeks of your life to a marmota monax whose fame in central Pennsylvania is eclipsed only by that of Joe Paterno.
There’s deep meaning here. Deep meaning. As we like to say (over and over and over), our significance is our insignificance.
This year will be a little special for us — and a little sad — because of the passing last week of our original Grandhog. Remembering Ron will be a central part of this year’s event, because he was the embodiment of our group. It’ll be special also because we’re welcoming our first pledges — the Coochie Doctor and Matlock — since we took a year off in 2005. They’re going to rock this weekend — skilled in the fine art of suckuppage, outstanding ceremonial headgear and a polished entertainment portion of the program. They’re a little nervous, our pledges, and they should be — but they’re going to be an excellent addition to the group. Pledge-of-the-year material, both.
So Friday morning, The Wife (class of 1993) and me (class of 1983), will head to Ohio, ready to help our pledges through a rough day and ready to welcome them into the fold. The madness begins upon arrival.
