A couple of weeks ago, my wonderful father got me tickets to go see Garrison Keillor speak here in town. I was absolutely overjoyed, since I like to think that if you get to meet God when you die, God speaks in Garrison Keillor’s voice. My friend Emily has decreed that if she is ever rich enough, she will hire Garrison Keillor to read her to sleep every night. I think this is a fine idea, and support her wholeheartedly.
Anyway, the event was at 10:30 in the morning on a Thursday, so I got to relish my unemployed state for once. Garrison Keillor (you must say his first and last names always, just like everyone says my name: Sarahbrown) was superb, and wore red socks with his suit, and made a fart joke and quoted Yeats.
As we left the auditorium, a reporter from the paper asked if she could interview me—I’m guessing since I was one of the only people there without gray hair. (That youth angle always sells, kids!) She remarked that I was a young fan, which was kind of funny since she looked to be my age. I gave her what I thought was a splendid line, which was, “He ended with Yeats, and even had a fart joke. A little something for everyone.”
The next day, my name was in the article—right under Garrison Keillor’s, which was no small thrill. The interviewer opted for a less colorful quote, though; something boring I said about how I would listen to him read the back of a cereal box.
I have got to start giving better sound bites.