Woo hoo! Finally, some tawdry "celebrity dirt" on Garrison. I've listened to his show since I was a hippie teenager, and now I find out that his humble, old-fashioned "regular guy" shtick was all an act. Somebody should let him know he's joined the ranks of the Kardashians in the glare of the public eye. (Can't wait for him to post one of those fish-lipped selfies on Insta-glam, or whatever the kids call it. I think that would have a lot better chance of "breaking the Internet" than pictures of an airhead's grotesque butt implants.)
The good news is that now people won't feel sad and miss the presence of one of the greatest storytellers of all time, or for the thousands of hours we've spent over the decades welcoming his nostalgic, funny, and inspiring world into our minds every week, because Garrison got a little cranky while traveling. (I can be imagine his mortification at the headline in the National Enquirer: "GARRISON FLIES FIRST-CLASS!")
The first (of four) times the Foghorn and I saw the show live was in a theater-in-the-round in Massachusetts. I had never realized that the "News From Lake Wobegone" just flowed directly from his mind to our ears, without notes or a script to work from. As the story unfolded and the stage slowly revolved, he gradually incorporated audience members from all around the theater into it until he had created another story about them that fit seamlessly into the narrative. It's impossible to describe in words, but in music we call that "Jazz."
Afterward, he, Chet and other cast members hung out in the parking lot for three hours, signing autographs and having their photos taken with every single person who wanted them. (I have all his books and most of the recordings, going back to cassette boots and box sets from the 80's.) Somebody had an In-n-Out Burger t-shirt on, and Garrison rhapsodized about them being the best fast-food burger on the planet, but no match for the monsters Dorothy served down at the Chatterbox Cafe. I remember him saying something like; "theyre not only delicious, but they'll sit up with you all night afterward to keep you company."
Frankly, before this latest glaring example of his boorish prima donna attitude I suspected him of being the
psychopath serial killer who beheaded dozens of Lake Wobegone residents a few years back, after he told the story about
Carl Krebsbach's 1937 Chevrolet mobile septic tank Homecoming parade float. Some instinct told me that anyone who would make up a story about septic tanks on wheels must be "putting on airs," perhaps to impress his rich New Yorker fans (everybody knows he had some).
Thank you so much for informing us that an elderly Minnesotan became "verbally abusive" on an airplane (I'll bet he gave her "the frowning of a lifetime," to boot), but complained about his neighbors, in public. I'm shocked, y'hear?
