Bent Words

Bent Words

March 31, 2005

MY 200TH ENTRY FOLKS!!!!! RAH RAH!!

I was in class and we were discussing the sociological problems that people now face in regards to work. The control of workers, the alienation they often feel toward their work, dangerous working conditions and how we should all be damned to the eternal Hells of a DMV waiting line for wearing over priced Nike shoes that were most likely manufactured by a little eight year old boy in a Pakistan sweatshop for $7.00.

The instructor was making some great points and, although I was inconspicuously tucking my Skecher's underneath my desk, I was listening whole heartidly. The professor went on to say that, according to Karl Marx, workers feel alienated because they do not have any control over their labor and that they blah blah blah blah with their blah da tee da blah when suddenly, with the mention of Karl Marx, all I could seem to focus on was this evolving picture in my head of Groucho Marx.

Ya know, the Marx Brother with the fake mustache, the giant cigar and the twitchy eyebrows?

"I never forget a face, but in your case I'll be glad to make an exception."

Yeah, that guy.

Than my mind wandered to the evenings where my parentals and I have relaxed during cocktail hour out on their deck on the Lake. In the middle of the lake, directly across from us, there is an island which houses several herons. Their massive nests, numbering over twenty, can be viewed quite clearly at the tops of the island trees during these cooler months free of foliage. It is a beautiful sight to see the these large, long legged, graceful birds stroll along our shoreline in search of food as the sun begins to set on the horizon.

One of these gorgeous birds makes a habit of seeking sustenance near our property and returns each year with the warmth of the sun. This particular bird has a very distinct gait which is slightly less becoming than some of the others of his species. Instead of holding his torso up high and sticking his chest out with pride, he rather leans forward and with an awkward thrusting of one leg, makes his way down the shoreline.

So my parents named him Groucho.

"Ohhhh, here comes Groucho!"

"Who?!" I asked, while twisting my head from side to side.

"Look! Down at the shore! That heron with the funky walk."

"You named him?"

"We don't get out much anymore..."

These thoughts brought me to question the succession of other wildlife animals my parentals have come to name over the years. It also caused me to question the stability of their mental capacities out there, in the middle of nowhere, with only each other for company. You now have a better grasp as to why I feel it necessary to visit them on the weekends. The likelihood that one of these fine furry or feathered creatures will someday be 'invited' into the house, to dinner and drinks. seems entirely too high. Here is the list of probable candidates...

There's Sam the Squirrel who defiantly stares at my father while he is outside doing yard work.

There's Herbert the One Legged Duck that mysteriously disappeared about two years ago but might show up again someday. Actually, I believe I'm to blame for naming that particular foul...

There's the minions of lawn loafing gophers who delight in making large tunnels under the ground by the lake (which I believe we have collectively named Fucking Rodents) who tend to cause slightly sprained ankles whenever one of us is mowing the grass. We've poisoned them, we've exploded their little under ground homes, we've placed dog hair, cat hair and human hair in their holes and we've even tried blocking off their entrances with mesh wire. The damned things will NOT die. Ya'll have cockroaches in NY, we have gophers in Wisconsin...

There's Murray the Muskrat who has been kind enough to chew through our pontoon boat cables every summer.

There's Harriet the Hummingbird Moth that mesmerizes every onlooker for a period of no less than ten minutes.

There's the thousands of geese (too numerous and annoying to name) who no longer migrate during the winter making ice skating on the lake over frozen lumps of goose shit a real treat.

They are the reason that my parentals now own a 'his and hers' BB gun collection. Throughout the day, every day, they can be seen from the deck or from the very windows in the porch of the house taking marksmen like shots at these obnoxious birds that proliferate about our lawn.

Disclaimer: No birds have ever been harmed in the process of these events - so you can quit with animal rights crap like three sentences ago...

The shooting of the birds has actually become a fun family activity climaxed by the neighbors who close their curtains as we take aim. How hillbilly they must think we are, shooting dinner from our back yard. When we get really riled up, we take out a bunch of discarded Coke cans from the recycle bin and commence a fine competition of target practice. Whoever repels the loud mouthed neighbor kids into their houses first, wins. My brother is really good at this particular game and it certainly makes for a much more serene cocktail hour out on the deck so that Groucho might return to grace us with his ever ponderous presence.

Ahhhh, how I wish I were at the lake now with this onset of beautiful and warm weath--

"...and thus the source of problems regarding work in the United States are not caused by unmotivated or unwilling workers, but by the structures of our society. See you all Monday," hailed my professor.

I swear I have adult ADD.

Written at 8:00 p.m.