On our way to the subway the other night with one of our
granddaughters, we passed Carnegie Hall, and I stopped and
bent down to tell Daniella what a famous place it was and how
very talented musicians went there to play. Irene, her grand-
mother, amplified my comments and then nudged me.
"I think that's Garrison Keillor ahead of us."
"Nah," I said. "He looks too thin."
"I'm sure it's Keillor. He's wearing red shoes."
"I don't think so."
"Mr. Keillor?" Irene called, raising her voice a little.
Garrison Keillor turned around. Up close he looks like a
gangly mathematics professor.
Irene said, "We're from Indiana, and we really enjoy your
show." After shaking our hands, Keillor turned up his palms
and, apparently thinking we were tourists, asked, "Are you
finding everything you want?"
"We live on Long Island," I said.
"Oh."
I asked, "You're not going to write for The New Yorker
anymore?"
"Nah," dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand as he
headed across the street.
Chalk one up for Irene's good eyes and instincts.
I figure anytime you see a well-known person whose work you
like you ought to say "hello," provided you do it quickly without
being disruptive. You may never get another chance.
One day at work at CBS News I looked up, and Jerry Reed was
standing by the water cooler. I went over and mumbled, "I like
your songs."
"Thank you, Brother," Jerry Reed said, extending his hand.
Another time I spotted Robert Gates in the newsroom. He was
a private citizen then, after his days as CIA chief and long after
his days as a student at Indiana University. Larry McCoy, a graduate
of Indiana University, who worked for RFE when it was funded by
the CIA, had a story about the CIA and I.U. that Robert Gates
absolutely had to hear. I introduced myself and my I.U. connection,
and Gates said his daughter was a student there. That means, I
thought, he's going to like this story even better, so I began.
A guy I knew at RFE graduated from Indiana University and had
to take a lie detector test when he applied for a job at the CIA. The
test conductor had also been to I.U., and whenever he noticed
someone had gone there he waited until the end of the test to ask
a phony question about Nick's, a bar 78 steps from what once was
the main library at Indiana University.
"Have you ever been drunk at Nick's?" the test conductor asked.
"Well, it depends on what you mean by drunk," my friend replied.
Nothing but silence from Gates and the smallest of smiles. I was
hoping for a laugh. I retreated to my office.
Years later when Irene sees a tall man in a suit and red sneakers
on the streets of Manhattan I have no killer anecdote ready for
Garrison Keillor either. But I wish I could have let him know
that Irene and I and two good friends saw a live performance of
his radio show at Town Hall almost exactly two years ago, and it
was one of the best things I've ever seen.
As someone who spent much of his life in radio, I was amazed by
how well and how tightly produced the broadcast was. All that
music, all those skits - no flubs, everything perfectly timed. And
probably most impressive of all, when Keillor came out to do
"The News From Lake Wobegon," I don't recall any notes in his
hands, didn't see any prompter. He simply talked. Started a story,
wandered off track a little, came back, may have wandered off again
and somehow it all was connected. A perfect circle. Wonderful.
I wanted to tell him how good Irene and I think the musicians are,
and how fond we are of the talents of Fred Newman, "Mr. Fred
Newman," as he is always called, the sound effects whiz. How
sometimes we can't stop laughing when Keillor is reading a script,
and Newman has to come up with the sounds of a rare animal or
an unusual household gadget.
I wanted to tell him about long Saturday afternoon rides back to
Long Island with my grandson, Nick, after skiing in the Catskills.
Many a time at 6 p.m. I have ejected a tape cassette or CD and
turned on "A Prairie Home Companion." Nick never seemed
intrigued by Guy Noir or other bits, but last December Keillor
and Fred Newman were doing one of those marvelous fast-paced
pieces with sound effects and Nick was laughing louder than I was.
It was funny. It was well done. There isn't much of that on the radio
these days, is there?
Nick will be 21 in February. He speaks three languages, knows
much more about all sorts of things than I ever will and is certainly
a more mature 21-year-old than I was, but I feel sorry for him. While
many of his generation have iPhones, iPods and iTunes, they have no
idea - no idea how marvelous radio is when it stimulates your
imagination.
Nick never heard Wally Phillips talking on the radio in Chicago
when a door suddenly opened and another voice said something,
and Wally responded and there was another voice saying something
and then boom, music.
He never got to hear Jean Shepherd tell a story - one story - that
took almost an hour. No actors helping him. Jean alone, in front
of a microphone, talking.
If Nick were in a car late at night and searched the AM dial, hunting
for a faint signal from some powerful station miles and miles away,
what would he hear today? A jock in New Orleans playing the Black
Eyed Peas followed by Waylon Jennings? Not likely. That would break
format. You can't do that.
He would probably hear some raspy rant about how stupid Obama
and all the liberals are, or some guy named Rex on the phone wanting
to know what the hell the Cardinals' manager was thinking when he
let so and so throw a curveball on a two-and-one count with two men
on and his team hanging on to a one-run lead. A medium of imagination
has been reduced to little but noise.
Fragments like these have gone through my mind since Keillor
shook our hands and went on his way. Right after he left, Irene and I
joked a little about his red sneakers. What does a celebrity do if he
starts something like that, always wearing red sneakers, and then one
day wonders why am I doing this? I'm sick of them. He may decide he
has to keep wearing the damn things or people will think he's off his
game or something. A moment of absolute trivia, but if Irene and I
worked in radio today we would probably be expected to ask our
listeners to e-mail, tweet or phone in with their two cents on whether
Keillor ought to get rid of the red sneakers. That's imaginative
programming for you.
If Daniella heard any of the drivel about red shoes, it must have
confirmed her belief that she was in the temporary care of two
halfwits. We had brought her into town to see the balloons for
the Thanksgiving Day parade. She got a close look at several of
them, including Santa, the Pillsbury Doughboy, and Dora, her
favorite, while Grandma and Grandpa got a close look at and a
few words with Garrison Keillor. Not a bad outing at all. Now I've
got to get Daniella hooked on skiing so we can make that long drive
home on Saturdays and turn on the radio at 6 p.m.
(Posted November 30, 2009)
