Why I'm Looking Forward to November

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October chill is in the air even when the sun shines and we count on this to bring us back to common sense after the dnovemberlusions of summer. Back in August I was contemplating what to say when accepting the Nobel Prize in Literature and now I’m cleaning out boxes of stuff in my closet. If I were a Nobel winner, the University of Texas would offer me a couple million for the stuff but now they won’t so I’m donating it to recycling. Smart move.

Some people want to eliminate the shortstop to permit higher-scoring ball games and attract more women in the 20–30 demographic who are bored by shutouts and double plays and consider that a “perfect game” would be one with 20 or 30 triples, but wiser heads have prevailed, thanks to the chill in the air.

Some say the limerick is not
Long enough, that the limerick ought
To be brought up to date
From five lines to eight.
I give the matter no thought.
Five is enough, I’ve been taught.
Prefer seven? Give it a shot.
Eight crosses the line.
As the Germans say, “Nein.”         
But ten — you got the jackpot.

But the Academy of American Limericists has decided that a limerick is five lines. Period. Put it out of your mind.  

The hot topic back in August was alternative mathematics, which factors in perceptions and expectations as well as hard numbers, and according to Y, formerly known as X, leading mathematicians were in a fever, seeing the foundations of math, symbolic logic, continuity, numbers themselves, thrown to the wind, replaced by an infinity of possibility, and thousands of Ph.D.s were looking for work in the hospitality industry, but that came to a screeching halt when the leaves turned and the birds headed south.

It’s hard to ignore reality for long. I don’t see much hope for Congress in this regard — when you elect people who are anti-government to govern, you must reap the whirlwind ­­— but I see it happening to Taylor Swift. I’m a friend of her parents, I’ve known her since she was a child and her nickname was Lorrie, we share a passion for gospel music, I have a tape of her singing “It’s G-L-O-R-Y To Know That I’m S-A-V-E-D,” and even after her gazillion-dollar Eras tour, which made her the Most Popular Person In The History Of The World, she is still loyal to her old friends and family and she and I still FaceTime Scrabble on Friday mornings, and last week I beat her with two bingos, “dallied” and “habitat,” and I said, “Girl, it’s October, time to recognize reality.” 

She said, “What are you getting at, Uncle G?”

I quoted the lines from “Beat It” on Sail On:
I’m looking at you, you’re a plastic statue
Of a make-believe man with a chemical tan
And an intelligence gap under your red cap.
You can fool the rubes, the goons, the boobs,    
But you’re history, mister.
You’re not needed.
So beat it.”  

I said, “In all the hullaballoo, they missed the message, but I didn’t. You got fifty million fans in the palms of your hands, but they don’t know you like I do, Lorrie. They know the glitter, the emotion, the poetry, the triumph, but I know the serious side of you that never appears in the songs, your passion for policy and justice and saving the world and calming the savagery with decency and hope, and when Eras hits the movie theaters, that’s when you need to announce you’re running for president.”

She was silent. “Make your move,” I said. “I’m thinking,” she said.   

“You’re the only one who can come into this Trump-Biden rematch that nobody wants and blow it apart. You can finance a campaign out of your back pocket. You’ve got 99% name recognition. You’ve got a phenomenal organization up and working. And, sweetheart, the fans can sense that you are one smart cookie. America is in desperate need of a woman president and you are that woman. This is your moment.”

It was her turn and she put down the word “maybe” with the Y on a triple space for a score of 31.

“You can do better than that,” I said. I’m waiting. When the news breaks, Joe can go plan his library and the Wide Ride can take his bodyguard squad to Riyadh and the rest of us can resume our lives. No time for failure, Taylor. Give us a lift.

Garrison Keillor © 10.16.230