A couple of months ago, I was assembling a jigsaw puzzle with my mother. From the other room a PBS broadcast (one in a series) detailed the life of a comedian and star of stage and film. Groucho Marx. The broadcast proceeded to show clips from his early days and a show called You Bet Your Life. I was hooked. I found his brand of euphemistic humor (the oh so infamous eyebrow dance (a skill my own father taught me at an early age) and extraordinary improvised conversation to be without comparison. Since this hour-long foray into his life I have been struck by many things-Groucho. The most recent of which was a book I found amid an array of pretentious artbooks and wonky graffiti folios called Groucho and Me. A treasure. A diamond in this stuff. It was out of place. I took it as a sign that Groucho and Myself were linked in this uncanny way (that I have since been at a veritable loss of words to describe.) I did not purchase the book. Though I vaguely regret this I am fairly certain it will turn up again. I have only to wait. And wait I shall.
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