Page Six Magazine recently did a feature article about Bill Murray, who’s becoming known for, get this, showing up at random house parties in Brooklyn.
But the weirdest part of the experience is not that Bill showed up at some random ragtag Halloween party, but that it’s only one of several out-of-place encounters New York City hipsters have had with the actor in the past few months. From hanging out with rock bands to hitting on twentysomething women at bars, Bill seems to be going through his own unique midlife crisis. He’s not a boozy, sweaty party hound who gets caught on camera cheesing it up with pretty young girls (see: Mel Gibson, Bono); rather, he’s more like a ghost in the night, who shows up out of nowhere, engages in utterly random conversations and then exits gracefully—leaving witnesses to wonder what the hell just happened. Deadpan, detached and seeming a bit lonely, Bill Murray is NYC’s most unlikely new party guy.
Then, predictably, the article decides to focus on the sad clown angle, wondering if he’s having a midlife crisis.
Now, with his real-life marriage in tatters, Bill seems to be perpetually stuck in his own version of Groundhog Day meets Lost in Translation—involuntarily repeating that excruciating yet endearing party scene, trawling for serendipity in the New York night.
Oh f-ck off. What the hell is wrong with these people? They even quote a goddamned psychotherapist. Trust me, psychotherapists wouldn’t know awesome if it punched them in the ear on the subway. Bill Murray doesn’t have a publicist, gives honest answers to people who interview him, and shows up in random places just to hang out with people. What more could you want out of him? The world could use at least 1,000 more Bill Murrays. And that’s why I’m naming this scotch glass Bill Murray. Come on, Bill, tell us a story. Oh Bill, you’re my best friend.
[Thanks to RoboPanda for the tip]