'Keillor Geography'

OK, y'all. Confession time.

Sometimes -- in the wee small hours, on cold and cloudy days, anytime "Sunday in New York" is showing on TCM -- I dream of disappearing.

I fantasize about moving to Manhattan, working for The New Yorker, begging Charles Osgood for a job on "CBS Sunday Morning," going to see Jonathan Schwartz at WNYC. Other days, I head to Hawaii, Maui mornings, spectacular sunsets.

I've told you before about Garrison Keillor's novel "Love Me." My friend Bridget turned me on to it in 2008. It was my fantasy come to fruition -- writing a best-seller, leaving home for the big time in the Big Apple, working for the late, great William Shawn.

But then I'll receive a note about something I've written from someone down the street. Out of the blue, I'll get a thank you card, or someone will stop by just to shoot the you-know-what. Best of all, my loved ones are here. And I think, "No. At least for now, this is where I need to be."

To my complete and utter delight, Keillor agrees. Read his National Geographic article, folks. This is WRITING. And it has the added benefit of being true.

(Shout out to Fountain City guy Charles Williams for suggesting I read this piece to rid my mind of the fear that we're entering a new Dark Age.)

Walter Mitty dreams for a day

A few years ago I read a Garrison Keillor novel called "Love, Me" that played out one of my Walter Mitty (Danny Kaye version) dreams.

It's about a small-town scribe who writes a best-seller, moves to New York and works for Mr. Shawn at The New Yorker. I was so taken with it that I nearly moved to Manhattan. (I'd have been broke by the end of the week, but hey...)

Every Sunday (and every day if I wish), I play out another Walter Mitty (Danny Kaye version) dream listening to Jonathan Schwartz on WNYC-FM and/or his new The Jonathan Channel. He's forgotten more about The Great American Songbook than I will ever know, and he likes the Red Sox. 

Tonight, and most nights over the last 20 years, I've played out another Walter Mitty (Danny Kaye version) dream by watching Robert Osborne on Turner Classic Movies. 

For the channel's anniversary, TCM aired a special "Private Screenings" on Osborne, interviewed by his best "Essentials" co-host, Alec Baldwin. 

Osborne's life is better than even a black-and-white MGM movie. He wrote for the Hollywood Reporter back when that meant something. He had a special relationship with Natalie Wood. He hung out with Peter Lawford at Louis B. Mayer's old mansion. He moved to New York and had a morning movie moment on CBS. He talks to Olivia de Havilland each week. 

And, nearly every night for the last two decades, he's hosted primetime introductions of the creme de la creme of classic cinema on TCM. 

Some guys have all the luck, as they say. 

Other jobs I'd like...

Yesterday's post was so well received, I thought I'd share another one along the same vein. Forgive me if this is shorter than usual. I feel terrible and it is Natalie Wood Day on Turner Classic Movies.

Here are a few other jobs I wish I had -- ones I think about during those Walter Mitty moments...

Being Charles Kuralt -- Longtime Pull Up A Chair readers know this one. I have often dreamed of taking what I do for the Shopper-News and doing it from sea to shining sea.

Oh, I couldn't do it with Kuralt's eloquence and mastery of language, but maybe I could do it in print, about a quarter as well as Kuralt. His "On the Road" segments were my favorite part of the old "CBS Evening News." I own a lot of them on DVD.

After all, Kuralt said two things I very much believe:

"It does no harm, just once in awhile, to acknowledge that the whole world isn't in flames, that there are people in this country besides politicians, entertainers and criminals."

And:

"The everyday kindness of the backroads more than makes up for the greed in the headlines."

Being Ed Murrow -- I'm not and never will be anywhere near Murrow's universe, but, gosh, I admire that guy. In addition to all the important work he did with Fred Friendly, he also hosted "Person to Person," interviewing everybody from Bing Crosby to Liberace, all while the wisp of smoke floated up from his fingers.

Being on "What's My Line?" Yet another fact that won't shock all five of my longtime readers. I love this show. It is by far the classiest, coolest, most stylish "game show" in network history.

Half the time I want to be John Charles Daly, news reporter during the week for ABC, erudite host  of "WML?" on Sunday nights for CBS. The other half of the time, I wish I were Bennett Cerf, the hokey wit of the panel, but as his day job, co-founder of Random House at the high-water mark of 20th century American literature. Heck, Arlene Francis and Martin Gabel were his next door neighbors!

"That's three down and seven to go...Mr. Cerf?"

(Look up some of the mystery guest segments from "WML?" on YouTube. It's a "Who's Who" of 20th century stars from all galaxies.) Here is my favorite.

Working for The New Yorker in the William Shawn era -- Every writer's dream. A few years ago, Garrison Keillor played out my fantasy in a fun novel called "Love, Me" I would have missed had it not been for my friend and fellow bibliophile, Mercer University professor Dr. Bridget Trogden. Read it, if you're of a certain persuasion.

Being "The Announcer" -- Johnny Olson, Ed McMahon, Gary Owens ... I know, for example, I lack the talent to be Carson, so let me be Ed. For years, introducing the guests and saying, "Heeeeeeeere's Johnny!" was on my bucket list. I also had this incredible urge to exclaim, "Get ready to match THE STARS!" every time I watched "Match Game." And, yeah, I sometimes say "From beautiful downtown Burbank!" when nobody's listening. Sock it to me!

Have a good week, y'all. See you in the Shopper. Don't miss my column this week on Archie "Hee Haw" Campbell. Some things may surprise you. (This particular link will work for one week.)

Rabbit, remembered

Today is the birthday of one of my favorite writers, the late and great John Updike.

He was prolific in his day, writing 20 novels and a ton of pieces (short stories, criticism), mostly for The New Yorker. His best-known works were the "Rabbit" novels about, what else, a regular guy named Rabbit Angstrom.

Updike became and remained life-long friends with author John Cheever. Despite a rocky relationship at times, their fondness for one another was such that when Cheever was erroneously informed sometime in the mid-1970s by a reporter that Updike had died, he got out of bed, wept and wrote a moving tribute to his old friend.

Here is the complete episode of Updike and Cheever's joint appearance on Dick Cavett's PBS program in the early 1980s.

Updike by reputation remained a "regular guy" despite the fact he rose to the heights of American letters. He found early on he didn't like living in New York City and moved his family to Ipswich, Mass., near Boston.

Remembers Garrison Keillor in The Writer's Almanac:

"After his death of lung cancer in 2009, many of his neighbors remembered him as a down-to-earth fellow, a participant in several civic organizations, a guy in corduroy trousers who played regular poker with the boys."

Just before he died, I remarked to a friend after a Super Bowl party, "You know, I'd love to go to one of these things and, just once, hear someone discussing Updike short stories."

I'm still waiting.

Cup of cheer for Charles Frazier

Happy 60th birthday to Asheville, N.C. author Charles Frazier, whose breakout book, "Cold Mountain," caused me to happily lose a lot of sleep shortly after its release in 1997.

Frazier's style doesn't exactly lend itself to propping up your feet by the fire. I read "Cold Mountain" over spring break 1998 and had to work at it, keeping a dictionary nearby. It was a little like sifting through dense fog. But with that, too, comes the exhilarating feeling when all becomes clear.

I have made a couple of false starts at his 2006 novel "Thirteen Moons." Reviews were mixed. My friend Bridget Trogden, whose opinion on all things literary I respect, liked it. It sits on my shelf, waiting its turn.

What I remember most about "Cold Mountain," other than its language, is the power of the narrative, sweeping you along in its undertow, alternating from hero Inman's journey from a Civil War infirmary back to Cold Mountain and his beloved Ada, and her struggle to work the family farm and stay alive after her pastor father passes away.

It's leaps and bounds better than the 2003 film adaptation, which is fine in its fashion. I also remember feeling popped like a balloon when Inman meets his fate.

According to Garrison Keillor's "Writer's Almanac" entry today, Frazier based the novel on a family story about an ancestor actually named Inman, who did indeed tire of the war and decide to walk home. Keillor says that Frazier's wife passed the manuscript along to a friend, author Kaye Gibbons, who for once actually told a writer to quit his day job (teaching college).

Frazier now raises horses on a farm near Raleigh, N.C. According to Wikipedia, he says his next novel, unlike the previous two, will be set in the 20th century.

A perfect pause

Macon, Ga. -- Otis Redding is still dancing around in my brain. Guess that happens here, in the cradle of soul, birthplace of a genius.

"They don't sing like that anymore" isn't a cliche. Not with him.

But, this is not about the Big O. We'll talk about him some other time.

The Garrison Keillor novel "Love Me" is keeping me company today. The Lawsons left for a perambulation at the park. This is my vacation; today I want to read.

Keillor's book isn't set -- for once -- in Lake Wobegone. It begins in Minnesota -- of course -- and will in time take me to New York, to the New Yorker, back when it was a magazine, back when William Shawn ruled the roost, back when one had to read it.

The tome is erudite -- but you would expect no less. It is funny. No surprise.

And it fits my mood, tugs at wistful thoughts of having lived and loved and lounged with literati, back when NEW YORK was spelled out in neon lights.

Someday I must read the Shawn memoir, the good one, written at the turn of the last century by Lillian Ross. I am too lazy to look up its title.

When Christmas debts are paid in full, and health care is not robbing me blind, I will buy, too, the DVD-ROM that collects every New Yorker through the set's release date -- if nothing else to read Calvin Trillin's U.S. Journal and Roger Angell's musings on baseball.

Now it's back to the recliner, to pages illuminated by the light of the afternoon, to a perfect pause in a holiday week made for such moments.