The Royal Order Of The Groundhog

At El Nopal in Florence, and the Royal Order Of The Groundhog is here. A guy on a loudspeaker just yelled “All rise!” Apparently it’s their 25th anniversary meeting. The Silver Jubilee. Shit’s about to get real. They just pledged allegiance to the Royal Order of the Groundhog and to their “burrow.” They have flags. And now they’re singing the groundhog anthem and toasting each other with mugs of beer. I’m not even joking. There are people who came up from Florida for this. They’re reminiscing about when they used to meet at Chi-Chi’s. And now there’s a chorus line, complete with feather boas, canes, and sparkly top hats. They’re singing “Give My Regards To Groundhog.” They’re dancing and throwing plastic coins now.

That’s all I could get. The groundhog is a mysterious and elusive creature. You thought I was lying, didn’t you? I don’t blame you. I was so mesmerized that it never occurred to me to get photographic evidence until it was almost too late. But I got it. Proof. I feel like the guy who photographed Bigfoot. I couldn’t make this shit up. Mark and I also stumbled across these people at Camino Real, after it moved from the hotel into the old Frisch’s across the street. When Camino Real went out of business, El Nopal opened in the same building. Apparently the groundhogs opted not to leave.

The first time Mark and I saw these people, we formed our own group: The Holy Brotherhood Of The Luminous Crustacean. So named because we both tried the shrimp that night, and also in honor of that lobster in the aquarium that used to decorate the entrance (you know, because lobster is such a traditional Mexican food). They had some kind of intense blue industrial halogen UV Batsignal spotlight in that tank. You could see that lobster from space. Anyway, you’re welcome to join the Brotherhood if you desire. We don’t have fancy meetings like the Groundhogs, but if you’re ever with us and you eat shrimp ’til you puke, we never, ever judge.

We’re not gonna make it, are we?

Reading National Geographic magazines from 1985. Articles about how mankind is changing the climate, how humans are causing the current mass extinction event, how birds evolved from dinosaurs… thirty years later, and we’re still treating these things like breaking news.


One degree. It’s one degree Fahrenheit. If we multiplied the temperature by 30, it would still be below freezing. Even when it’s 0°, we use the plural. Zero degreeS. But not at 1°. In the infinity of numbers, we have reached the only instance in which we use the singular “degree.” It’s a special kind of cold. I thought I woke up with morning wood. Turns out my dick was just frozen to my leg. I’m really goddamned cold is the point I’m trying to convey.


I can think of few things more offensive to survivors of sexual assault and domestic abuse than to avoid talking about it by hiring people to pretend on television that they’re too upset to talk about it. What pandering, insincere, self important bullshit.

Make Monsters, Not War

Not pictured: science fiction

When I pay for a giant robot/monster movie, I want to see giant fucking robots and/or giant fucking monsters. I don’t give a fuck about the military. Outside of showing bullets and missiles bouncing off robots/monsters to show how tough they are, or watching the occasional tank get crushed under a giant foot, the military has no place in my kaiju/mech entertainment. You’re wasting my time and money.

If you’re the kind of director who gets all wet for men in uniform, Michael Bay, then you should take your tiny little Army/Navy boner and make a war movie. There’s a shit ton of people who will line up to see those. Don’t make a movie about soldiers with a monster that shows up twice just to justify your stupid fucking camouflage and artillery circle jerk. If you feel the need to spank it to a war movie, just make a fucking war movie. Get your military fetish out of my goddamned science fiction.