It is a typical Friday or Saturday night. The kids are in bed, probably not sleeping, but at least they have retreated upstairs for the evening. After checking emails and maybe facebook, the adults have the TV and the night to themselves. We surf, and surf, and surf. Since getting rid of the DVR, we are committed to watching live TV, which is usually not very good. And so, what we end up watching, for the millionth time, is House Hunters. It’s the only thing we seem to agree on.
House Hunters is not actually terrible. It is entertaining, or I wouldn’t watch it. But it is not that great, either. There are varying degrees of House Hunters quality. Seeing a young couple get a first apartment is not interesting. Actually, watching the house hunter(s) look at anything worse than my own home is usually grounds for not watching the show. Why would you do that? Of course, I have, but the point is to get a peek inside a home that you cannot afford. To gain an inside look at a really exclusive place, with a pool, outdoor kitchen, five bathrooms, a palatial lot, three or four car garages, 3 or 4 fireplaces, etc. We do not want to look at a house like our own, a colonial built in 1973 that has cracks up and down the driveway, a rear gutter that’s literally hanging from the roof, a damp garage, electric sockets that don't work, a bad washing machine hookup, and a water filtration system that is about to give out at any second.
But we’ll even watch those episodes, the crummy ones. It’s amazing how the producers make the cities look attractive to live in. Many times, the personalities of the people buying the home leave a lot to be desired, but in this reality TV world, that’s the catch.
So, when/if people ask(ed) what we watched, or what we did on Friday or Saturday night, if we were being honest, we would probably say, “Watched House Hunters again.” This is so lame.
It seems the only truly good network show out there is “Parenthood.” There was just a great write-up about the series in the New Yorker. Awesome cast, good plot lines, just good dramatic television. In a time when everything is either reality-based or a spinoff of Law and Order or CSI, “Parenthood” is refreshingly, well, old. It isn’t sensationalistic, it’s not violent, it’s just a bunch of intertwined stories about a family, from grandparents to their grandchildren, most of whom have very real flaws, that is really engrossing to watch. Maybe this is because I’m a parent myself and can relate to some of the stories, but I can’t think of a better show on TV right now.
I’m sure there’s some better programs, or maybe as good. Some like “The Good Wife”, but I can’t get into the idea. “Mad Men” has won tons of awards, “Weeds”, which I’ve seen, is good but too far-fetched for me to buy into it. I’ve also seen “Nurse Jackie” on some most popular lists.
What you won’t see on there is House Hunters, but it’s probably what we’ll still be watching, every Friday and Saturday night, right until the very end, when the couple picks from the three homes they toured - as long as the house is better than mine.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Time to buy stock in Band-aids
It was another day of skinned knees and bicycle wipeouts in the driveway this weekend, at least four crashes just today by my count, which means that we went through more than our typical allotment of Band-Aids. Good thing we bought backup boxes.
Within one two-hour span yesterday, I put three Band-Aids on my kids' knees. This does not count the number of Band-Aids they put on themselves. The only reason I know this is because they left the little wrappers behind on the bathroom floor.
Out of curiosity, I checked the stock price of Johnson and Johnson, which owns the Band-Aid brand, and it is currently trading at $66 a share. While a look at the last five years is not that promising as a potential investor - stock high $71 a share, low in the mid 40s - I have to think that Band Aids are on the upswing. The marketing alone of cartoon characters on them - Mickey Mouse, Cars movie characters, princesses - means that we are buying a box of them every week in the summer. I know other families are in the same boat.
But the true magic of Band-Aids is that they work on the placebo effect. Kid gets a Band-Aid on their cut and suddenly they start to recover. Add Neosporin and you've got instant healing. I witness this often. My kids could be bleeding profusely, little bits of sand mixed in their leg or arm gash, but you slap a Scooby Doo Band-Aid on it, and within minutes my son -- whose left elbow is broken, by the way -- is jumping off the retaining wall or riding his bike full speed into the garage, where he crashed into the wall yesterday. It takes more than a scrape to hold him back from putting himself in another dangerous situation.
Of course, it's because of Band-Aids that he has this kind of courage. I think I just came up with their new advertising campaign.
Within one two-hour span yesterday, I put three Band-Aids on my kids' knees. This does not count the number of Band-Aids they put on themselves. The only reason I know this is because they left the little wrappers behind on the bathroom floor.
Out of curiosity, I checked the stock price of Johnson and Johnson, which owns the Band-Aid brand, and it is currently trading at $66 a share. While a look at the last five years is not that promising as a potential investor - stock high $71 a share, low in the mid 40s - I have to think that Band Aids are on the upswing. The marketing alone of cartoon characters on them - Mickey Mouse, Cars movie characters, princesses - means that we are buying a box of them every week in the summer. I know other families are in the same boat.
But the true magic of Band-Aids is that they work on the placebo effect. Kid gets a Band-Aid on their cut and suddenly they start to recover. Add Neosporin and you've got instant healing. I witness this often. My kids could be bleeding profusely, little bits of sand mixed in their leg or arm gash, but you slap a Scooby Doo Band-Aid on it, and within minutes my son -- whose left elbow is broken, by the way -- is jumping off the retaining wall or riding his bike full speed into the garage, where he crashed into the wall yesterday. It takes more than a scrape to hold him back from putting himself in another dangerous situation.
Of course, it's because of Band-Aids that he has this kind of courage. I think I just came up with their new advertising campaign.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
A Day of Pain, Some Tears
As a parent, there are many days when kids get upset and cry, but usually they are not crying over very serious matters (“I was sitting there first!”; “____ won’t give me [some toy].”; “I don’t want to go to bed now!”) and they recover quickly.
But yesterday was one of those days when tears were produced for, from my point of view, more genuine, more unsettling reasons.
First, it was Alison’s last day at swimming lessons. She is almost four, now. She’s been going to a place called the School of Swimming in Rocky Hill for two weeks, and it’s been a trial getting her there – it usually takes a bribe of ice cream or soda afterwards for her to keep it together. Not just that – but on the last day, kids in every age and ability (there are probably 40 kids taking lessons at the same time) are encouraged to jump off the diving board into 9-foot-deep water. This is quite a challenge for a little girl who cannot swim on her own in 3-foot-deep water or put her head in the water for more than 2 seconds.
So I’m watching her and she’s clearly nervous. Not much talking on the car ride there. Sort of like me going to the doctor’s. She had already told us in the days leading up to the final class that she was not going to jump off the diving board. She was adamant about that. Like reassuring parents, though, Claudine and I were positive and upbeat to her, telling her that she'd “have fun” and I think we may have said, “Don’t worry, Ali. You’ll do great.” or some vague comment like that.
But pretty much from the moment the class started, through its more brutal middle right to the end-that-couldn't-come-any-sooner, Ali was a mess. My wife had to leave pool area because Ali wanted to be held but she wanted Ali to soothe herself. (Good call.) Ethan and I stayed beside the pool watching Ali, and she came over to me, a sign of true desperation, but I told her to stay with her group, which was walking alongside the pool toward the diving board. A swimming instructor held Ali's hand as the kids made their way to the other end of the pool, the deep end.
Ali could not stop crying at this point and I reached the point where it was hard to look at her. I knew we were doing the right thing by enrolling her in swimming classes, it is never too soon to learn this life skill, but she was clearly emotionally distraught about having to jump off, or even consider, the diving board. She sat there on the edge, shaking, looking up at the ceiling, hoping someone would come rescue her. Perhaps she was praying in her own way.
To be aiding and abetting this kind of experience makes one feel guilty and distressed. A parent’s instinct is to not put his or her child through pain, yet here I was supporting it.
When the lesson was over – Ali did walk out onto the diving board, amazingly, and she waved at the spectators before turning around and sitting back on the edge of the pool, which is way more than I expected – I think there was a collective sigh of relief in all of us, from me, my wife, and Alison. We, of course, praised her on the great job she did. “You’re such a big girl! Awesome job going out on the diving board!” When I half-jokingly asked her on the way home, as she licked a lemonade ice pop, if she would go back for another lesson, I heard a “No!” so sharp that I think she knew what I was up to. Don’t even mess with me, Dad. It ain’t happening.
Less than five hours later, my wife calls and says Ethan, our 6-year-old has fallen while playing at a birthday party, and he’s hurt his arm. Now, he’s hurt his arm before and it’s usually not resulted in a serious injury. He recovers quickly. The pain is acute but over quickly, and there's no lasting damage. But this time, when he came home, it was clear that he couldn’t really use his arm – his left one, thankfully – and my wife decided to bring him to the emergency room.
The doctor examined it, took X-rays, and discovered that there was a break in a bone near his elbow. “I don’t think he’s going to need surgery,” he said. But Ethan’s arm is wrapped in a soft cast, hanging in a sling, and we have to make an appointment for him to see an orthopedic surgeon next week.
Ethan is clearly bummed. He is an active kid who likes riding his bike (sometimes with one hand despite having two), climbing across the monkey bars (effortlessly), hitting wiffleballs, shooting hoops, climbing trees. I don’t know what the prognosis will be, but if he’s in a cast for a month, it’s going to be a tough month.
We’ve already upgraded our cable so that we can watch Red Sox games, and there have been visits to the library for books and the Redbox for movies. He got a new Star Wars puzzle today, but it was painful seeing him try to put it together with one hand. Not knowing how long Ethan will be sidelined is probably forcing us to overreact a bit. (We've been without cable for three months.) But even if he’s in the cast for a few weeks, we need to find things for him to do. Summer vacation started 3 days ago. This is supposed to be a time when you can use both arms, you're feeling healthy, and you can enjoy the long hot days, swimming at the lake, running through the sprinkler, playing Frisbee, you get the point.
In a parent’s mind, there’s always something you think you could have done to avert such accidents, but in reality there is often nothing that could have been done. You can’t predict every fall. You can’t make every experience safe. Kids get hurt. Period. I have a scar on my nose to prove it when I ran facefirst into the kitchen counter when I was two. Stitches ensued. The scar is still apparent. My wife broke her arm after falling off her bed at the same age. She was trying to use the bed like a trampoline.
There’s a children’s book that I used to read to my kids a few years ago titled “Could Be Worse” about a grandfather who used to tell his grandkids that line whenever there was a problem. Spilled a drink on the morning paper? Could be worse! Lost your favorite toy? Could be worse! Got a C on a homework paper? Could be worse!
I think I’m going to pull out that book tonight to remind myself of this alternative philosophy because, even though yesterday was not the greatest of days, things definitely could have been worse.
But yesterday was one of those days when tears were produced for, from my point of view, more genuine, more unsettling reasons.
First, it was Alison’s last day at swimming lessons. She is almost four, now. She’s been going to a place called the School of Swimming in Rocky Hill for two weeks, and it’s been a trial getting her there – it usually takes a bribe of ice cream or soda afterwards for her to keep it together. Not just that – but on the last day, kids in every age and ability (there are probably 40 kids taking lessons at the same time) are encouraged to jump off the diving board into 9-foot-deep water. This is quite a challenge for a little girl who cannot swim on her own in 3-foot-deep water or put her head in the water for more than 2 seconds.
So I’m watching her and she’s clearly nervous. Not much talking on the car ride there. Sort of like me going to the doctor’s. She had already told us in the days leading up to the final class that she was not going to jump off the diving board. She was adamant about that. Like reassuring parents, though, Claudine and I were positive and upbeat to her, telling her that she'd “have fun” and I think we may have said, “Don’t worry, Ali. You’ll do great.” or some vague comment like that.
But pretty much from the moment the class started, through its more brutal middle right to the end-that-couldn't-come-any-sooner, Ali was a mess. My wife had to leave pool area because Ali wanted to be held but she wanted Ali to soothe herself. (Good call.) Ethan and I stayed beside the pool watching Ali, and she came over to me, a sign of true desperation, but I told her to stay with her group, which was walking alongside the pool toward the diving board. A swimming instructor held Ali's hand as the kids made their way to the other end of the pool, the deep end.
Ali could not stop crying at this point and I reached the point where it was hard to look at her. I knew we were doing the right thing by enrolling her in swimming classes, it is never too soon to learn this life skill, but she was clearly emotionally distraught about having to jump off, or even consider, the diving board. She sat there on the edge, shaking, looking up at the ceiling, hoping someone would come rescue her. Perhaps she was praying in her own way.
To be aiding and abetting this kind of experience makes one feel guilty and distressed. A parent’s instinct is to not put his or her child through pain, yet here I was supporting it.
When the lesson was over – Ali did walk out onto the diving board, amazingly, and she waved at the spectators before turning around and sitting back on the edge of the pool, which is way more than I expected – I think there was a collective sigh of relief in all of us, from me, my wife, and Alison. We, of course, praised her on the great job she did. “You’re such a big girl! Awesome job going out on the diving board!” When I half-jokingly asked her on the way home, as she licked a lemonade ice pop, if she would go back for another lesson, I heard a “No!” so sharp that I think she knew what I was up to. Don’t even mess with me, Dad. It ain’t happening.
Less than five hours later, my wife calls and says Ethan, our 6-year-old has fallen while playing at a birthday party, and he’s hurt his arm. Now, he’s hurt his arm before and it’s usually not resulted in a serious injury. He recovers quickly. The pain is acute but over quickly, and there's no lasting damage. But this time, when he came home, it was clear that he couldn’t really use his arm – his left one, thankfully – and my wife decided to bring him to the emergency room.
The doctor examined it, took X-rays, and discovered that there was a break in a bone near his elbow. “I don’t think he’s going to need surgery,” he said. But Ethan’s arm is wrapped in a soft cast, hanging in a sling, and we have to make an appointment for him to see an orthopedic surgeon next week.
Ethan is clearly bummed. He is an active kid who likes riding his bike (sometimes with one hand despite having two), climbing across the monkey bars (effortlessly), hitting wiffleballs, shooting hoops, climbing trees. I don’t know what the prognosis will be, but if he’s in a cast for a month, it’s going to be a tough month.
We’ve already upgraded our cable so that we can watch Red Sox games, and there have been visits to the library for books and the Redbox for movies. He got a new Star Wars puzzle today, but it was painful seeing him try to put it together with one hand. Not knowing how long Ethan will be sidelined is probably forcing us to overreact a bit. (We've been without cable for three months.) But even if he’s in the cast for a few weeks, we need to find things for him to do. Summer vacation started 3 days ago. This is supposed to be a time when you can use both arms, you're feeling healthy, and you can enjoy the long hot days, swimming at the lake, running through the sprinkler, playing Frisbee, you get the point.
In a parent’s mind, there’s always something you think you could have done to avert such accidents, but in reality there is often nothing that could have been done. You can’t predict every fall. You can’t make every experience safe. Kids get hurt. Period. I have a scar on my nose to prove it when I ran facefirst into the kitchen counter when I was two. Stitches ensued. The scar is still apparent. My wife broke her arm after falling off her bed at the same age. She was trying to use the bed like a trampoline.
There’s a children’s book that I used to read to my kids a few years ago titled “Could Be Worse” about a grandfather who used to tell his grandkids that line whenever there was a problem. Spilled a drink on the morning paper? Could be worse! Lost your favorite toy? Could be worse! Got a C on a homework paper? Could be worse!
I think I’m going to pull out that book tonight to remind myself of this alternative philosophy because, even though yesterday was not the greatest of days, things definitely could have been worse.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
CAKE at Toad's
I've been to most major concert theaters in the state, but last night was the first time I'd set foot into New Haven's Toad's Place, "Where the Legends Play", according to its slogan.
When you look up at the walls and see the white and black placards of the many acts who have played there, you get a sense that the claim is valid. U2, Bob Dylan, Red Hot Chili Peppers, James Taylor, Billy Joel, Rolling Stones -- they've all played in the basement-like dungeon near Yale, where a string of green lights adorn the walls and bar. It is not a pretty place. There was no seats, really. Just a stage, three bars, and a giant floorspace.
CAKE played at Toad's last night; they rocked for a (barely) two-hour set. A kind of short, but solid show. The music was tight (and loud). My ears are still adjusting to the level of bass that pumped across the concert floor.
Besides Wilco, CAKE is one of the few bands I know that produce really good music, yet airplay has been generally minimal. Since the mid 1990s, CAKE has produced probably about 8 albums, yet the band was most popular when their hit, "The Distance" was atop the charts. Since then, CAKE has continued to churn out very good music and the band tours in places like Toad's Place or The Webster Theatre in Hartford, where faithful fans pack smaller venues. Tonight, they play Boston's Orpheum Theatre.
By 9:15 last night, Toad's Place was jammed with bodies, mostly people in their 20s and 30s. I was probably above the median age, which I would say was somewhere around 28, which felt weird, but strangely satisfying.
I was surprised with how crowded the place had become. At 8:15, when we arrived, the place was about 10 percent full. I thought there would be an embarrasingly small crowd. By the time the show began, there wasn't room to move. We stood for three hours in all, and once the show was going for a little while, you starting absorbing sweat from people (mostly dudes) around you. For a while, an air of claustrophobia settled among the crowd. Many may have been comforted by it. Elbows into elbows, feet touching feet, people stuck in their standing room only two foot by two foot space. When we moved at intermission to get something to drink, we gave up our "good spot." We were relegated to a back corner for the second set, which was not as good as the first.
It was good to go to Toad's, at least once, although I'd be careful about who to see there. The acoustics were good directly in the center of the stage, but the quality of sound dropped significantly at the edges of the room. But, for $42 a ticket, seeing CAKE play, and standing 25 feet from the stage, was a relative bargain.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
"The Names"
It's been a LONG time since I've posted to this blog, although I thought a bunch of times about writing on it since January, my last post. Anyway, with the ninth anniversary of 9/11 passing yesterday, I wanted to copy a poem here by former US Poet Laureate Billy Collins which was written some months after the terrorist attacks. It is the only poem I've ever read in the New York Times.
As people debate whether a mosque should be built two blocks from Ground Zero (talk about throwing gasoline on a still smoldering fire), I think it's important to remember "The Names."
"The Names" - Billy Collins
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name --
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner --
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.
As people debate whether a mosque should be built two blocks from Ground Zero (talk about throwing gasoline on a still smoldering fire), I think it's important to remember "The Names."
"The Names" - Billy Collins
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name --
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner --
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Sunday, December 13, 2009
An Evening with Garrison Keillor
It's an unfortunate thing when a celebrity performer whom you have come to enjoy fails to meet expectations. Sometimes, it's a bad day. Other times, it's a signal that retirement may be looming.
Garrison Keillor, whose "Prairie Home Companion" NPR radio show delights its listeners and live audiences with humor, music, acting, poetry, and insightful commentaries, came to Hartford's Bushnell Theater last week. I thought it would be a good idea to see him.
What I was expecting, I suppose, was a Prairie Home-type performance.
But it was just Garrison Keillor - no band, no actors, no one to accompany him.
It was sort of like Jerry Seinfeld with no supporting cast.
Keillor was on stage alone, just him and a microphone and a stool.
He sang frequently, and as anyone who has heard him knows, he pretty much can't sing. Audiences tolerate his singing because his shows usually consist of much more. He told stories, which he is very good at. But on this night, he was forgetful - a warning sign that, maybe, just maybe, his age (67) and health condition (he suffered a mild stroke in the fall) are catching up with him.
At one point, he referred to a poem by ee cummings but forgot its name. ("You know the one" he told the audience) Another time, he forgot a word (which I have since forgotten, too) during a story, and then remembered it minutes later.
So it was disappointing to see a subpar performance from a performer who is consistently smart and smooth. I got the sense that "An Evening with Garrison Keillor" is just too much. Being on a stage for 90 minutes with no intermission and no supporting cast is not Keillor's strength. His strengths are the skits he does such as "Guy Noir" Private Eye, The News from Lake Wobegon, and the many other features he has developed into his weekly show.
The audience at the Bushnell, also, was a bit different from his Prairie Home shows at Tanglewood, where we see him each year. Tanglewood is a diverse mix of people, young and old. Kids frolic on the lawn while their parents drink beer. Teenagers find themselves wandering on the Tanglewood grounds, experimenting with certain illegal behavior. Older folks there tend to be hip.
At the Bushnell, the audience was clearly AARP-eligible. The heads around me were mostly gray or bald, and although some gray hairs have emerged on my head, and there isn't as much on my top as there used to be, I felt like I was not a part of the advertised demographic. I felt like I was rushing things, being there at the Bushnell where the mean age of the audience members was probably 20 years older than me. I felt like maybe I needed to find a performance more my age.
A comforting thing did occur today, though, when, on the way home, I tuned into my car radio and listened this week's Prairie Home Companion, and it was good. Garrison Keillor's usual skits and familiar delivery were unsurprising but warm and comfortable, sort of like a meat loaf and mashed potatoes. Normally, I'm not a fan of such bland diner food, but after listening to Keillor's monologue today, I felt encouraged that he still had his A game for the Prairie Home program.
Garrison Keillor, whose "Prairie Home Companion" NPR radio show delights its listeners and live audiences with humor, music, acting, poetry, and insightful commentaries, came to Hartford's Bushnell Theater last week. I thought it would be a good idea to see him.
What I was expecting, I suppose, was a Prairie Home-type performance.
But it was just Garrison Keillor - no band, no actors, no one to accompany him.
It was sort of like Jerry Seinfeld with no supporting cast.
Keillor was on stage alone, just him and a microphone and a stool.
He sang frequently, and as anyone who has heard him knows, he pretty much can't sing. Audiences tolerate his singing because his shows usually consist of much more. He told stories, which he is very good at. But on this night, he was forgetful - a warning sign that, maybe, just maybe, his age (67) and health condition (he suffered a mild stroke in the fall) are catching up with him.
At one point, he referred to a poem by ee cummings but forgot its name. ("You know the one" he told the audience) Another time, he forgot a word (which I have since forgotten, too) during a story, and then remembered it minutes later.
So it was disappointing to see a subpar performance from a performer who is consistently smart and smooth. I got the sense that "An Evening with Garrison Keillor" is just too much. Being on a stage for 90 minutes with no intermission and no supporting cast is not Keillor's strength. His strengths are the skits he does such as "Guy Noir" Private Eye, The News from Lake Wobegon, and the many other features he has developed into his weekly show.
The audience at the Bushnell, also, was a bit different from his Prairie Home shows at Tanglewood, where we see him each year. Tanglewood is a diverse mix of people, young and old. Kids frolic on the lawn while their parents drink beer. Teenagers find themselves wandering on the Tanglewood grounds, experimenting with certain illegal behavior. Older folks there tend to be hip.
At the Bushnell, the audience was clearly AARP-eligible. The heads around me were mostly gray or bald, and although some gray hairs have emerged on my head, and there isn't as much on my top as there used to be, I felt like I was not a part of the advertised demographic. I felt like I was rushing things, being there at the Bushnell where the mean age of the audience members was probably 20 years older than me. I felt like maybe I needed to find a performance more my age.
A comforting thing did occur today, though, when, on the way home, I tuned into my car radio and listened this week's Prairie Home Companion, and it was good. Garrison Keillor's usual skits and familiar delivery were unsurprising but warm and comfortable, sort of like a meat loaf and mashed potatoes. Normally, I'm not a fan of such bland diner food, but after listening to Keillor's monologue today, I felt encouraged that he still had his A game for the Prairie Home program.
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