Last night at an outdoor rally, a U.S. Senator thanked the crowd.
He thanked the volunteers.
He thanked the organizers.
He thanked everyone who showed up.
Then he added:
“Even the guy in the chicken suit.”
The crowd laughed.
I was not there.
I was home. Blue bathrobe. White socks. Soft drink halfway to my mouth. Watching through the steady glow of a television screen — the modern form of civic participation.
Still, when he said it, I paused.
There is something unsettling about being acknowledged by a club you did not join.
The remark was harmless. Casual. A nod to spectacle. Somewhere in that audience stood a citizen in costume — perhaps protesting, perhaps entertaining, perhaps simply committed to visual punctuation.
He was not named. He was not identified.
He was categorized.
“The guy.”
And for one brief moment, that was enough.
Groucho Marx once said, “I never join a club that would have me as a member.”
It remains the cleanest warning about belonging ever written.
Because when a club notices you — even in passing — it raises a question.
If they would thank you, does that mean you belong?
I did not attend.
I did not register.
I did not volunteer.
But I appreciate the gratitude.
Still, should any formal invitation arrive, I reserve the right to quote Groucho and decline.
Respectfully.
Even from the couch.