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New Jersey decided a few years ago to have their own season forecasting weather rat, which they named Simms, after Giants great Phil Simms. Apparently, Phil is the name of choice for oversized Northeast rodents. After a couple years, they realized how dumb it was, and I like to think they let the rat free, to roam the vast woodlands of NJ. More than likely, the stupid thing ran out on Route 1 and was road pizza in less than an hour.
But no, I need to tell you about Groundhog Day, one of the most important movies ever.
The first real date I ever went on with the Crotchety Old Lady was to see Groundhog Day.
It was a magical night. Ok, as magical as a night in a New Jersey movie theater with a bucket of popcorn and a Dr. Pepper can get. We met in the parking lot, giddy that we got away from our respective families for the night.
Once inside, we acted like a couple of lovestruck spit swapping teenagers.
At the end of the film, we exited the theater, and sat in our cars and chatted for hours, until eventually, we had to go our seperate ways. And, just like in the movie, we kept meeting again, until
Check back tomorrow to see why Bruce Springsteen is just another yappy, self aggrandizing celebrity putz.
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