I’ve had this attraction to history for as long as I can remember, so there are a few distinctions about my life that strike me in ways that others may not see so obviously. They usually deal with people or events — like, my life overlapping that of the last emperor of China, Puyi, by about four years. Or that I was born just shy of 51 years from the Titanic’s sinking and less than 18 years after the end of World War II.
When I was young, the “greats” (as far as I knew them) were still alive. The kind that starred in movies like It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. I remember when Jackie Gleason died in ’87. And Milton Bearle in 2002.
And Groucho Marx in 1977.
There was something about Groucho that I (and many others) loved. I see his work now and it’s just so crisp. And timeless (well, if you can get over the fact that so much of it was (hilariously) insulting). I watch some of the comedians that were coming up in the 80s (Seinfeld comes to mind here) and I look at their old stuff and it’s just awful.
But Groucho? Watch him and you’ll see him (and his brothers) just nailing it time after time.
I happened upon the piece below somehow yesterday and wanted to share it. Sure, among today’s sensitivities, some of it might not fly. But it was comedy. It was delivery. It was artistry. I hope you can appreciate that and at least smile.