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Why I'm happy and you should be tooThe Column: 03.22.24
It’s so good being an old man that if I’d only known, I’d have arrived at 81 sooner, and I don’t just mean senior discounts. I mean the liberation from hipness, being out of the loop, going to bed early, not reading book reviews or pundits. William Butler Yeats said it all in 1919: “The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity.” My wife just walked over in her pajamas as I was googling the Yeats and she leaned down and I was filled with passionate intensity, so I’m no better than you, I’m just older. I don’t go to movies anymore — don’t know the actors and the butter on the popcorn is worse than ever — don’t watch TV because the remote is way beyond my pay grade. That’s why I’m not a Republican: I never watched “The Apprentice” — and there was a deadness in the man’s eyes that told the truth. I read a transcript of his speech in Rome, Georgia, a week ago: “We have the stupidest people in the history of our country running things. These are stupid, these are stupid people. And we should be saying, ‘Crooked Joe, you are fired. Get out of here. You are fired. You’re incompetent. You’re incompetent. Get out of here. You’re destroying our nation. Get the hell out of here. You’re destroying our country, Joe.’ He doesn’t have a clue. He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t know he is destroying it. He has no clue. He has no clue.” No other president could have talked like that except maybe in his sleep, stood up in public at a microphone and said, “You’re stupid. You’re a stupid dummy. Dummy, dummy, dummy, dummy, dummy. Get me? You’re stupid.” This man makes George W. Bush seem like Winston Churchill. The party of Lincoln is falling in line but we’re Americans, we don’t pay money for a bowl of cat turd soup that’s labeled Cream of Mushroom, so don’t lose hope. If the voters listen to the man and look into his eyes, he’ll win Alabama and Mississippi, claim fraud, and go live in Riyadh. Praise the Lord. Old age is all about gratitude. I’m a lucky man. I chose the right parents, two fundamentalists so I’m guilt-ridden, yes, but there was no fetal alcohol syndrome. Guilt made me a better husband. In the 8th grade, Mr. Orville Buehler saw me joking around in shop class while my rotary power saw was screaming through a 2x6, and he kicked me out and sent me up to LaVona Person’s speech class, a turning point in my life. I made my living by talking and avoided hard work, avoided drowning and highway fatality and drug addiction, avoided therapy so I never found out how troubled I was, which would’ve depressed me. I am funnier now than I used to be, thanks to flatulence. Women don’t experience this because they talk a lot and so the pressure never builds up, but every man over 70 has four or five eruptions a day and so laughter follows us wherever we go. That’s why Speaker Johnson had that look on his face sitting behind Joe during the State of the Onion. I am still doing shows and my band sits behind me and has a whee of a time. And now Palm Sunday is coming when we Piskies clap our hands and dance and then Easter when one candidate will be in church hearing about the Resurrection and the other will be playing golf and not counting the shots he doesn’t like. And then Opening Day on March 28 and the nation returns to rational thinking. If a pitcher stands on the mound and yells, “You’re a dummy, you got no clue, you stupid dummy,” he still has to throw the ball and the batter can take a swing. It’s a beautiful game. No longer the national pastime, but we old liberals like it. Things are looking up. It was a miserable winter, dreary rainy days instead of snow, but now the daffodils and tulips are blooming, and this spring I am really truly going to sit down and read Moby-Dick. I was an English major, I took a course in Melville in 1963, wrote a paper about the symbolism of Moby-Dickand got a B on it but never read the dang book. I’m told it’s good. Ahab goes down with the whale, Ishmael survives, using Queequeg’s coffin for a buoy. Melville’s buried in the Bronx, at the end of the No. 4 subway. When I’m done with the book, I’ll go out and put daffodils on his grave. Kindly consider supporting your favorite shows, The Writer's Almanac and A Prairie Home Companion.Your donation helps sustain these cherished programs and the art of storytelling.CLICK HERE to make a gift today!You’re on the free list for Garrison Keillor and Friends newsletter and Garrison Keillor’s Podcast. For the full experience, become a paying subscriber and receive The Back Room newsletter, which includes monologues, photos, archived articles, videos, and much more, including a discount at our store on the website. Questions: admin@garrisonkeillor.com |
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