Why these two, though? And what does my current TV lineup say about my psyche?

Let’s start with So I Married an Axe Murderer. Mike Myers plays a quirky, commitment-phobic poet who suspects his new wife might just be a serial killer. Casual, right? It’s ridiculous, irreverent, and tinged with a sort of endearing skepticism. You’re laughing at the absurdity of it all, but there’s a nagging sense that maybe we all wonder if our trust issues will catch up with us.

Now, pair that with Groundhog Day—Bill Murray at his best, playing a man stuck in an endless loop of reliving the same day, forced to confront himself over and over again. Phil Connors, in all his sarcastic, “I’m too good for this” glory, can’t escape his own flawed self no matter how many times he wakes up at 6 a.m. to Sonny and Cher.

Both movies feature characters who, at their core, are skeptics with a hint of curmudgeon. But the charm lies in their transformation—or at least their attempt to make peace with the bizarre hand they’ve been dealt.

So, what does this viewing double-header say about me? On some level, it’s a way to explore my own push-pull with the everyday absurdities of life. Maybe I, too, feel a bit like Bill Murray stuck in a loop, wondering if the next day will be any different. Or perhaps I relate to Mike Myers’ character, suspicious that things can go sideways when you least expect it.

But here’s the thing: both movies end on a note of possibility, even joy. Despite their grumbling, cynicism, and wry humor, these characters find their way through the chaos, embracing life with panache. Maybe, like them, I’m drawn to the idea that even when things feel absurd or repetitive, there’s always room for a surprising twist or a new perspective.

Late-night TV, curmudgeon humor, existential dread—it’s all part of the charm. And maybe that’s exactly what I need: a reminder that no matter how many times you’ve lived through the same day or questioned life’s absurdity, there’s always a way to laugh at the absurdity and keep moving forward, with a little bit of panache.

Late-night viewing has its own vibe. It’s that twilight hour where sleep feels close but not quite within reach, and you’re searching for something to match the slightly absurd, dreamlike state you’re drifting into. Enter: *So I Married an Axe Murderer* and *Groundhog Day*. On the surface, these two cult classics are lighthearted, but dive a little deeper and you realize they’ve got curmudgeonly charm, irreverent humor, and a splash of existential dread.

Why these two, though? And what does my current TV lineup say about my psyche?

Let’s start with *So I Married an Axe Murderer.* Mike Myers plays a quirky, commitment-phobic poet who suspects his new wife might just be a serial killer. Casual, right? It’s ridiculous, irreverent, and tinged with a sort of endearing skepticism. You’re laughing at the absurdity of it all, but there’s a nagging sense that maybe we all wonder if our trust issues will catch up with us.

Now, pair that with *Groundhog Day*—Bill Murray at his best, playing a man stuck in an endless loop of reliving the same day, forced to confront himself over and over again. Phil Connors, in all his sarcastic, “I’m too good for this” glory, can’t escape his own flawed self no matter how many times he wakes up at 6 a.m. to Sonny and Cher.

Both movies feature characters who, at their core, are skeptics with a hint of curmudgeon. But the charm lies in their transformation—or at least their attempt to make peace with the bizarre hand they’ve been dealt.

So, what does this viewing double-header say about me? On some level, it’s a way to explore my own push-pull with the everyday absurdities of life. Maybe I, too, feel a bit like Bill Murray stuck in a loop, wondering if the next day will be any different. Or perhaps I relate to Mike Myers’ character, suspicious that things can go sideways when you least expect it.

But here’s the thing: both movies end on a note of possibility, even joy. Despite their grumbling, cynicism, and wry humor, these characters find their way through the chaos, embracing life with panache. Maybe, like them, I’m drawn to the idea that even when things feel absurd or repetitive, there’s always room for a surprising twist or a new perspective.

Late-night TV, curmudgeon humor, existential dread—it’s all part of the charm. And maybe that’s exactly what I need: a reminder that no matter how many times you’ve lived through the same day or questioned life’s absurdity, there’s always a way to laugh at the absurdity and keep moving forward, with a little bit of panache.