Visit the kelpforest....

Yikes! I been reading/listening to him for going on more than 20 years, and I don't think I've ever heard Garrison Kiellor sound so angry!

(thanks, magicwoman)

I can't help agreeing with him, but I think there's plenty of hypocrisy to go around. Seems to me it's what all of politics is based on.

When I took government in high school, it pretty much disenchanted me with both major political parties. Both of them have changed almost 180° from what they first started from, and both contained major elements I found distasteful. I never joined either. It's my profound belief that anyone remotely interested in serving in politics should be barred forever from it. I can't remember whether it was a story by Arthur C. Clarke or Issac Asimov, that had a political system I thought should be tried, somewhere, sometime. If you had the qualifications for an office, such as owning your own large business, being a decent administrator, etc., your name went into a hat and it was decided by lottery. No one in their right mind actually wanted the job, but it was mandatory you served and did a good job if you were picked.

Of course, it wouldn't work in this world. Someone would find some way to abuse it, just like they do now.

I did get to see Garrison Keillor on Monday night; I ran out at lunch time to get his book Love Me so I could have it signed, and I also brought one that's been on my bookshelf, WLT, for a number of years. It occurred to me that I have been listening to this man and his show for going on 20 years; I believe I started before I went to college. John knew I really wanted to go, (and how often do you get to see someone like that for free!) and agreed to stay home while I went by myself. Rather graciously, I might add, it turns out that his jealous act about Mike is mostly to give me a hard time. He called and told his friend Jerry was coming over, and to go ahead and leave from work.

I made it up to Pasadena without incident, although I did have to stop for gas and to put air in the tire (it has a slow leak). However, off the freeway and heading to CalTech, I found that many of the streets are not brightly lit and the street signs are rather small. It was already dark, and although I'd been to the Beckman Auditorium before I ran into a little trouble finding the street the parking lot was on. By the time I could read the street sign, I was already past the street, so I had to make a few U-turns before I found the right place.

I walked to the auditorium and got in line. There was a line for ticket holders, who apparently got reserved seating, and the longer line for people just showing up (like me). However, I was expecting the place to be jammed and it wasn't. There were quite a cross section of people in line with me; older, bordering on elderly people, to younger people - I noticed a guy with a Mohawk and a girl with blue hair.

When they started letting people in, I went up to the balcony, as the lower floor was crowded, and sat in the front row so I could scan the crowd for Mike. The ceiling consists of a bunch of concave gold disks connected together and suspended from the upper ceiling like a parachute. There are little blinking lights that could be seen through the gaps between the disks. I guess I'm easily hypnotized, because I kept finding myself staring at the ceiling.

The PR manager for the bookstore came out to introduced Mr. Keillor finally, and he ambled out the front of the stage, ignoring the tall stool set there for his use for the moment. He started by reading some poetry, starting with Emily Dickinson and another called Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver.

Now poetry in a book is, for me, like sheet music. I can look at it and know intellectually that there is music there, but I can't hear it. Like music, it's meant to be heard, And by someone with a Voice. The words that were just ant meandering across the page come to life. Sigh.

And then he got a little lighter, and recited his daughters favorite about the seeing eye dog peeing on the blind man's shoe (whaddya expect - she's 5), and the one I felt I had to memorize, a rather different twist on the creation myth:

When God first created woman, she had not two breasts, but three
But the middle one got in the way, so God performed surgery.
After, Woman came to God, the extra breast in her hand
And said, "What shall we do with this useless boob?

So God created man.

Heh. Sorry, guys. But a guy said it.

He read a bit from his book, some of the bits where the main character was giving advice to the lovelorn. Then he perched on the stool, sometimes with his knees drawn up, and sometimes with his legs splayed across the stage, so his bright red socks and black sneakers with white laces were clearly visible, and took questions from the audience, even though the program said that he wouldn't. He offered advice on dealing with celebrity governors (he's from Minnesota, doncha know), admitted that when he quit his show and ran off to Denmark with a new wife he was having a midlife crisis. One of the things he said that struck me, is that once a moment passes, it doesn't exist any more unless it's recorded, documented, written about. That's what writers do. And it's kind of what this whole website is about, isn't it?

After he was done speaking, they set tables up on the stage and people got in line to have him sign their books. The line extended down the stage and into the lobby, but I was surprised it wasn't longer. I assumed he'd be sitting at the table and signing, but he actually stood there and talked to each person as they came up. I was near the back of the line, and passed the time chatting to the woman in line with me, and listening to people behind me. There's one in every crowd - a guy actually said he doesn't have time for a girlfriend because he does nothing but go to book signings and get a thousand signed books a year. He'd been at the front of the line and immediately ran around to the end with another stack of books. *Shakes head* He said he had about 30 and he was sure Garrison wouldn't mind, they were good friends. The store rep, although she seemed like she knew him, put her foot down and told him "no, only five more." Sheesh, I felt guilty giving him two!

When it was my turn, he regarded me gravely - those eyebrows seem to getting more Andy Roonyish every year - and extended his hand )with the pen still in it), looked me up and down and and said "That is an awesome shirt!" I was wearing a Hawaiian shirt with surfboards on it. The woman I'd been talking to mentioned I lived in Huntington Beach - "Surf City" and he chimed in with "Oh yeah, The Beach Boys mentioned that in some of the songs. Didn't they grow up there?" Well actually they grew up in Redondo Beach, but at the time I was ashamed to admit I didn't know. He asked if I had a family and how that was going for me, and finished by holding his hand out again with a smile. And of course I was reduced to a giggling schoolgirl, who couldn't make a straight sentence. I giggled all the way back to my car.

I looked at my books before I drove home. In one he just put "Best" and in the new book he wrote, "Love and Coffee," I stopped at In n' Out Burger before I got back on the freeway, since I hadn't had a chance to grab a bite earlier, and as I headed back down the 605 towards the beach and home, I thought Garrison Keillor shook my hand twice! I'll never wash it again..." Then I remembered I was eating a drippy burger and fries, so that wouldn't work very well.

What a sweet, sweet man. For a shy person, he certainly can put people at their ease. Anyway, I've been trying to get this out since Tuesday morning, and I've just had too much other stuff to do, and now it's after 1 am Saturday morning. So I'll going to bed.

Well, we are still sick. I took yesterday off and though I'm probably feeling well enough to go back today, John is still barely able to get out of bed, and gets winded walking to the kitchen. I'm not feeling particularly inspired, so I'll stick this here. I'm only a midwesterner by marriage, but I am a shy person, which Mr. Kiellor also professes to be. So I relate to this. Click the link at the bottom to read the whole article, it's really very sweet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE ART OF THE EMBRACE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By Garrison Keillor

I saw the famous Eisenstadt picture of the V-J Day kiss in Life when I was a boy and thought it was sweet: the girl in the white dress standing, bent back in the arms of the sailor who is planting a hard kiss on her lips, with Times Square and grinning onlookers in the background. And now, in another era, one can look at it and imagine an act of harassment. It is only an embrace, but the woman's body looks stiff, as if this kiss is not her idea and she can't muster up enthusiasm for it; she isn't clinging to the sailor, she's just hoping he doesn't drop her on the pavement.

The picture illustrates the great danger and achievement of an embrace --- to be any good, an embrace must be mutual, and there may be a chasm of uncertainty between the impulse and the deed, even when you hug your wife. Maybe she is still mad from when you came home an hour late ten minutes ago. You hug her and she says, "What's that supposed to mean?" All an embrace means is that you expect to find the one you reach for reaching for you.

My mother told me that, on V-J Day, when news came that the war was over, people were so overjoyed they dashed into the streets and hugged complete strangers, even in Minneapolis where we lived. The thought of that surprised me then and still does. People in the Midwest don't hug that much unless they're Italian. Even in a euphoric moment, swamped by emotion, a true midwesterner would be careful who he threw his arms around. To us, an embrace is too intimate to be conferred on mere acquaintances; it would feel insincere.

In the show business, which I hang out on the periphery of, there are people who embrace anybody they've ever been introduced to. This seems almost as unnatural to me as eating off the floor. I have met people who, after we've talked about this and that, say, "I'd like to give you a hug if that's all right," which strikes me as too weird for words. A hug that has to be announced? But of course the huggee has no choice, though afterward, I'd like to hand them a card that says, "Thank you for hugging me."

From "The Art of the Embrace"
For full article, see:
http://www.prairiehome.org/content/9502_life.shtml

Found in my PHC weekly newsletter:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE SOLO SOCK
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of life’s many troubles, I’ve known quite a few:
Bad plumbing and earaches and troubles with you,
But the saddest of all, when it’s all said and done,
Is to look for your socks and find only one.
Here’s a series of single socks stacked in a row.
Where in the world did their fellow socks go?

About missing socks, we have very few facts.
Some say cats steal them to use for backpacks,
Or desperate Norwegians willing to risk
Prison to steal socks to make lutefisk.
But the robbery theories just don’t hold water:
Why would they take one and not take the odder?

Socks are independent, studies have shown,
And most feel a need for some time alone.
Some socks are bitter from contact with feet;
Some, seeking holiness, go on retreat;
Some need adventure and cannot stay put;
Some socks feel useless and just underfoot.
But whatever the reason these socks lose control,
Each sock has feelings down deep in its sole.

If you wake in the night and hear creaking and scraping,
It’s the sound of a sock, bent on escaping.
The socks on the floor that you think the kids dropped?
They’re socks that went halfway, got tired, and stopped.

It might help if, every day,
As you don your socks, you take time to say:
"Thank you, dear socks, for a job that is thankless.
You comfort my feet from tiptoes to ankless,
Working in concert, a cotton duet,
Keeping them snug and absorbing the sweat,
And yet you smell springlike, a regular balm,
As in Stravinsky’s Le Sacre du Printemps,
And so I bless you with all of my heart
And pray that the two of you never shall part.
I love you, dear socks, you are socko to me,
The most perfect pair that I ever did see."

This may help, but you must accept
That half of all socks are too proud to be kept,
And, as with children, their leaving is ritual.
Half of all socks need to be individual.

- Garrison Keillor

If Dr. Suess were still around, I could see him illustrating this.

I would think it helps to be female to appreciate Garrison Keillor's voice, and also an appreciation for storytelling, rather than just entertainment.

I think what I like about it is that it is gently funny, without beating you over the head with the humor. It is about everyday life, and growing up in small town where things are simpler, and picking tomatoes with your sister and throwing a rotten one at her butt. It's appealing whether you grew up in small town and it strikes a chord with you, or you didn't and wish you could live someplace like that now. Intermixed with the humor are often moments of poignancy like In Memory of My Cat Ralph, and the music, whether good or bad, is usually pretty diverse.

If you prefer your humor more like that of Chris Rock, who is funny, but makes me seasick with his constant pacing and my ears hurt because of his high volume delivery, I can see where Prairie Home Companion would have limited appeal.

From the News From Lake Wobegon (a rerun from 1999):

"In the cemetery, there are graves belonging to several men who died some time ago, and to save a few bucks they added their wives names as well, who were still living. Their names were there and under the the year, 19--. The men died quite a long time ago, and I guess the 21st century seemed a long way away at the time.

So, now our cemetary is not Y2k compliant. "

-Garrison Keillor

Two and a half year old Gareth came up to me yesterday and very politely said, "Take this fuckin' shirt off me. " I swear I'm going to put out a cussing jar.

A POEM FROM GK

There was a boy whose name was Jim
And although life was good to him
And gave him home and food and love,
He thought that it was not good enough,
That it was time for him to do
Those things that he’d been told not to.

"I am ten must be free
To enjoy what’s been denied to me,
And I shall do it all" he said.
"I'll spread some black dirt on my bread,
And spill food on my Sunday clothes
And I shall put beans up my nose."

Everything that to this kid
His mom said, "Don’t," he went and did.
He gulped his sandwich, dragged his feet,
Threw bags of garbage in the street,
Leaned out the window, ran down the halls,
And wrote exciting words on the walls.

Until at last, at half past two,
He could not think of more to do.
Anger, gluttony, and pride --
He’d drunk and smoked and cursed and lied,
Stuck out his tongue, dropped his britches,
And shoved old ladies into ditches
And other things good folk condemn
He’d done it all by 3:00 p.m.,
And satisfied his appetite:
Now what was left to do that night?

From this, dear children, you should sense
The value of obedience.
When I say, "Don’t," I mean, "Postpone
Some wickedness for when you’re grown,
For naughty flings and wild rampages
And much more fun at later ages."

Now brush your teeth and go to bed.
And after all your prayers are said,
Lie in the dark as quiet as mice
And whisper one word that isn’t nice.
Don’t say ten, a whole big group,
Just say one, like "panda poop."

Oh, what a thrill from one bad word!
Say it a second time and a third.
"Poop" is a vulgar word, and vicious.
How bad of you! And how delicious!
One is enough. The rest will keep.
Now shut your eyes and go to sleep.

~ Garrison Keillor

Did it again. Angus and Gareth were running in and out from the front yard and getting in and out of their wading pool, and I missed not only Prairie Home Companion on the radio, but also setting up my tapes for Yu Yu Hakusho and Cowboy Bebop. Since this usually is on the same time as dinner and getting kids ready for bed I usually have to watch them later anyway. Sometimes I have to laugh at myself for my strange tastes in entertainment. Folk music, monologues on small-town midwestern Lutherans, science fiction and Japanese cartoons. All in one evening. At least PHC plays again tomorrow at noon.

I'm afraid my viewing of YYH is colored by all the yaoi fanfiction I've been reading on Aestheticism.com, before ever even seeing the series (or reading the manga). I have a skewed view of it. As for Cowboy Bebop, love the guys, love the weird stories, love the corgi,and especially the music (I have got to find a CD [yeah,right, add it to my massive list]) but those clothes they draw on Faye look positively uncomfortable to me, not to mention cold. Who would really be running around in those little shorts when it's snowing?! And why bother with the sweater if its just going to be hanging off your elbows and getting in the way.