I’ve long since accepted the fact that there are few material rewards — other than a paycheck — for the kind of writing I do. I don’t get asked on many junkets. I don’t get to “test drive” fancy new cars. Etc. When I wrote my lavishly sycophantic Ode to Budweiser for the magazine, I expected that I might get a case of beer or some such from the home office in St. Louis. Instead I got a nice letter from the CEO which was mostly dedicated to telling me that I was right to say nice things about Bud. My defense of McDonald’s earned me not even a cold McNugget. My defense of sweatshops didn’t even garner a single free rubber shower shoe from Vietnam.

Nevertheless, I’m holding out hope for some Suntory times with Bill Murray in response to the article. Though I’m sad to say it, I suspect that if I’d written a pro-Groundhog Day piece for The Nation an invitation for a drink would be more likely. I don’t know much about Murray’s politics, but that’s my suspicion. Regardless, Bill, if you’re reading this, the drinks are on me.