The Center Post - Fall 2004

A Mildly Amusing, Slightly Ironic Tale Concerning Garrison Keillor

8 October 2004

Dear Barbara, Christina, Jenny, and Garrison,

            I’m a Unitarian Universalist minister who runs a small summer camp for teenagers and a conference center in the fall, winter, and spring.  Twice a year we put out a newspaper to publicize our programs, usually relying in the writings of some of our workshop leaders, who have included Grace Paley, Noam Chomsky, Paul Winter, Ram Dass, Jean Houston, Dan Berrigan, and a number of other fairly well known people.

I also use the paper to grind some political axes and was struck by the clarity of Garrison’s essay about the Republicans, We’re not in Lake Woebegon Anymore.  It was making the rounds on the Internet and I thought he might like to have his voice plugged into our paper, which goes out to 30,000 people.

I set out to get permission, working through In These Times, and after a week I finally tracked down someone named Molly at Penguin books in New York City.  I dutifully sent off a request to reprint the article, using the Rev. in front of my name and how we are a 501C3 non-profit organization.  Fairly promptly I received the following reply: “Unfortunately, we are unable to license a reprint to such a small publication.  I wish you the best of luck in your efforts.”

Feeling stunned, I went over to lunch, where the hardworking volunteers at our workweek were relaxing.  I wondered aloud about how our little town of 350 people suddenly seemed even smaller.  I had thought 30,000 was pretty big, but had just learned otherwise. 

I happened to be sitting next to Clara Hendricks, a work-study volunteer who was spending six weeks with us instead of wasting her time in high school.  I appreciate her tee shirt that says Close Down the School for Torture, a cause I’ve known about for at least twenty years, since I follow our nation’s horrific policies in Central America.

Clara’s father was the teaching assistant of the Men’s Glee Club at UC Santa Barbara, where I sang from 1964-67.  I figured Prairie Home Companion would air in their home, but I don’t know, so I asked Clara if she knew who Garrison Keillor was.  She said last year she had Thanksgiving dinner with him. 

Picking my chin up off the floor, I said “What?”  Turns out her mother's best friend’s sister is Garrison’s wife.  In UU circles, hearing a story like this, my friend Bruce doesn’t say “Small World,” he says “Small Denomination.”  But this is from the Big Wide World.  

What could I do except inquire if I might email her mother, who could, if she chose, email her friend, who could, if she chose, email her sister, who could, if she chose, petition Mr. Keillor to bypass Ms. Molly.  All he would need to do would be to say, “Sure, print it, and say with permission of Garrison Keillor.” 

Our being such a small publication, it’s unlikely Ms. Molly would find out, but if I received a stiff letter came from an attorney, I would reactivate this email chain.  Hopefully, Garrison would then jerk the chain to call the advocate off.

End of story?

Hopefully not.

Hoping to hear from you before we go to press on Thursday the 14th.

Douglas Wilson


Dear Rev. Wilson,

I am so sorry that the lady at Penguin blew you off and of course I'd be tickled pink if you wanted to run that essay of mine (lifted from my book Homegrown Democrat, with no permission from me, but I don't care) or any other excerpt from the book. You can just say, "By permission of the author," and leave it at that, and I'll deal with them if they make trouble for you.

Good to hear from you. I'm become more and more hopeful about the election, not that John Kerry has a magical solution but at least we can pack that arrogant bunch off to Texas and wherever else they hail from.

Garrison Keillor


Dear Garrison

Many thank yous, my good man.  I could not agree more about sending them back to Texas.  Indeed, if they win, I fear that what is left of our democracy may be dead.  Not for no reason Jefferson et al talked about the fragile nature of the enterprise.

Blessings, Doug

P. S. When you run for president, we’ll only support you if you promise to keep doing the show. 


Here's the original article

We’re Not in Lake Wobegon Anymore

By Garrison Keillor

Something has gone seriously haywire wth the Republican Party.

Once, it was the party of pragmatic Main Street businessmen in steel-rimmed spectacles who decried profligacy and waste, were devoted to their communities, and supported the sort of prosperity that raises all ships. They were good-hearted people who vanquished the gnarlier elements of their party, the paranoid Roosevelt-haters, the flat Earthers and Prohibitionists, the antipapist antiforeigner element. The genial Eisenhower was their man, a genuine American hero of D-Day, who made it OK for reasonable people to vote Republican. He brought the Korean War to a stalemate, produced the Interstate Highway System, declined to rescue the French colonial army in Vietnam, and gave us a period of peace and prosperity, in which (oddly) American arts and letters flourished and higher education burgeoned, and there was a degree of plain decency in the country. Fifties Republicans were giants compared to today’s. Richard Nixon was the last Republican leader to feel a Christian obligation toward the poor.

In the years between Nixon and Newt Gingrich, the party migrated southward down the Twisting Trail of Rhetoric and sneered at the idea of public service and became the Scourge of Liberalism, the Great Crusade Against the Sixties, the Death Star of Government, a gang of pirates that diverted and fascinated the media by their sheer chutzpah, such as the misty-eyed flag-waving of Ronald Reagan who, while George McGovern flew bombers in World War II, took a pass and made training films in Long Beach. The Nixon moderate vanished like the passenger pigeon, purged by a legion of angry white men who rose to power on pure punk politics. “Bipartisanship is another term of date rape,” says Grover Norquist, the Sid Vicious of the GOP. “I don’t want to abolish government. I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub.” The boy has Oedipal problems and government is his daddy.

The party of Lincoln and Liberty was transmogrified into the party of hairy-backed swamp developers and corporate shills, faith-based economists, fundamentalist bullies with Bibles, Christians of convenience, freelance racists, misanthropic frat boys, shrieking midgets of AM radio, tax cheats, nihilists in golf pants, brownshirts in pinstripes, sweatshop tycoons, hacks, fakirs, aggressive dorks, Lamborghini libertarians, people who believe Neil Armstrong’s moonwalk was filmed in Roswell, New Mexico, little honkers out to diminish the rest of us, Newt’s evil spawn and their Etch-A-Sketch president, a dull and rigid man suspicious of the free flow of information and of secular institutions, whose philosophy is a jumble of badly sutured body parts trying to walk. Republicans: The No.1 reason the rest of the world thinks we’re deaf, dumb, and dangerous.

Rich ironies abound! Lies pop up like toadstools in the forest! Wild swine crowd round the public trough! Outrageous gerrymandering! Pocket lining on a massive scale! Paid lobbyists sit in committee rooms and write legislation to alleviate the suffering of billionaires! Hypocrisies shine like cat turds in the moonlight! O Mark Twain, where art thou at this hour? Arise and behold the Gilded Age reincarnated gaudier than ever, upholding great wealth as the sure sign of Divine Grace.

Here in 2004, George W. Bush is running for reelection on a platform of tragedy — the single greatest failure of national defense in our history, the attacks of 9/11 in which 19 men with box cutters put this nation into a tailspin, a failure the details of which the White House fought to keep secret even as it ran the country into hock up to the hubcaps, thanks to generous tax cuts for the well-fixed, hoping to lead us into a box canyon of debt that will render government impotent, even as we engage in a war against a small country that was undertaken for the president’s personal satisfaction but sold to the American public on the basis of brazen misinformation, a war whose purpose is to distract us from an enormous transfer of wealth taking place in this country, flowing upward, and the deception is working beautifully.

The concentration of wealth and power in the hands of the few is the death knell of democracy. No republic in the history of humanity has survived this. The election of 2004 will say something about what happens to ours. The omens are not good. Our beloved land has been fogged with fear

— fear, the greatest political strategy ever. An ominous silence, distant sirens, a drumbeat of whispered warnings and alarms to keep the public uneasy and silence the opposition. And in a time of vague fear, you can appoint bullet-brained judges, strip the bark off the Constitution, eviscerate federal regulatory agencies, bring public education to a standstill, stupefy the press, lavish gorgeous tax breaks on the rich.

There is a stink drifting through this election year. It isn’t the Florida recount or the Supreme Court decision. No, it’s 9/11 that we keep coming back to. It wasn’t the “end of innocence,” or a turning point in our history, or a cosmic occurrence, it was an event, a lapse of security. And patriotism shouldn’t prevent people from asking hard questions of the man who was purportedly in charge of national security at the time.

Whenever I think of those New Yorkers hurrying along Park Place or getting off the No.1 Broadway local, hustling toward their office on the 90th floor, the morning paper under their arms, I think of that non-reader George

W. Bush and how he hopes to exploit those people with a little economic uptick, maybe the capture of Osama, cruise to victory in November, and proceed to get some serious nation-changing done in his second term.

This year, as in the past, Republicans will portray us Democrats as embittered academics, desiccated Unitarians, whacked-out hippies and communards, people who talk to telephone poles, the party of the Deadheads. They will wave enormous flags and wow over and over the footage of firemen in the wreckage of the World Trade Center and bodies being carried out and they will lie about their economic policies with astonishing enthusiasm.

The Union is what needs defending this year. Government of Enron and by Halliburton and for the Southern Baptists is not the same as what Lincoln spoke of. This gang of Pithecanthropus Republicanii has humbugged us to death on terrorism and tax cuts for the comfy and school prayer and flag burning and claimed the right to know what books we read and to dump their sewage upstream from the town and clear-cut the forests and gut the IRS and mark up the constitution on behalf of intolerance and promote the corporate takeover of the public airwaves and to hell with anybody who opposes them.

This is a great country, and it wasn’t made so by angry people. We have a sacred duty to bequeath it to our grandchildren in better shape than however we found it. We have a long way to go and we’re not getting any younger.

Dante said that the hottest place in Hell is reserved for those who in time of crisis remain neutral, so I have spoken my piece, and thank you, dear reader. It’s a beautiful world, rain or shine, and there is more to life than winning.

Reprinted with permission of the author, Garrison Keillor, from his book Homegrown Democrat.