Some people do drugs to get high; I just need a live taping of Prairie Home Companion (street name: PHC) to get a little juiced, staggered, and steamed.

It’s the only explanation I can come up with for how I ended up in Garrison Keillor’s dressing room after his Los Angeles Greek Theatre taping Friday night and looked him in the eye and said, unprovoked, “Do you want to hear my Sarah Palin rap?”

And the old boy from Anoka, with his red running shoes, furrowed his brow and said, “Let me change my trousers.” (Yes, if I recall correctly, I really think he said trousers.) And he went into to his private bathroom, most likely hoping I’d forget my request or get hauled off by Guy Noir, but when he returned, I would not relent and asked, “You ready?”

He had one foot in the hallway, where a crowd had assembled to talk to Martin Sheen, one of the evening’s guest performers, but he could tell I was one of them scrappy rappers from a western suburb, like Brother Ali, and agreed with an “OK.”

I quickly explained, “It’s called High Stickin’ Hockey Mom because she’s breaking all the rules . . . you, know, high stickin’ . . . .” (Most rappers don’t offer footnotes to their work, but I’m exceptional.)

Garrison nodded and then made a quip about how it’s not too hard to skewer Palin with a rap. But I never heard it; my mad flow was in action (if you want to hear the rap for yourself, go here).



As I performed, he imitated my bug eyes (it’s one of my signature moves along with my angular hand movements), jived a little in his shoulders, and then grew an amused smile, as if I were a circus monkey who exceeded his expectations.

I cut the rap short, fearing I’d overstayed my rhyme, and when I finished, the other three people in the room nodded with approval, someone clapped, and Garrison said:

“He’s got a lot of energy and verticality.”

I swooned; a man whom I worshiped as child, who was once on Time magazine’s cover, and who has done a movie with Lindsay Lohan liked my posture. Who Daddy! My rap career had reached new heights. (I kid you not, he said “verticality.”)

He nodded, maybe shook my hand, and then left to find Marty.

I took a breath and looked at the other strangers in the dressing room, and then my knees started to shake. I was coming down from my Prairie Home Companion high and getting all tweaked. I couldn’t believe what I had just done and beelined it to the craft services table for some coffee.

It was there that I ran into cast member extraordinaire Tim Russell. His soothing radio voice helped me down from my PHC trip so that I could look good when I snapped this photo with Martin Sheen. El Presidente looks good in person—and really Irish. I wanted to ask about Apocalypse Now and if he drinks Coppola’s wine now, but thought I’d taken enough risks for the evening.

After my photo, I turned to see Garrison wheeling his suitcase down the hall. He nodded to me and said (paraphrased), “Good luck with your rap . . . and your marionette moves.”

Not only had he complemented my spine, now he was complimenting my choreography!

I waited a few more minutes, hoping the evening’s other performers might make an appearance—Sheryl Crow and k.d. lang—but to no avail. I headed to the nearest exit but was stopped by security. Ouch, this could be trouble, I was jacked up on PHC, and well . . .

Earlier in the night, I’d rushed the stage, leapt over a security guard, and tossed a note for Garrison to read during his “notes from listeners portion,” and security had radioed for backup fearing I might climb on stage. When they realized I just wanted to wish my friend and avid listener in D.C. a good summer, they backed down. (NOTE: You can see that the show had me doing off-the-wall things from the get-go. Put me in a crowd with an aging and somewhat repressed audience, and I guess I tend to act out . . . but that’s another blog.)

. . . The security guard held up his hand to me. “Sir, I recommend you take the other door. This one doesn’t have any security outside to supervise you. The one down the hall does.”

This security guard thought I was SOMEBODY! A VIP! A WHITE RAPPER WITH REALLY GOOD POSTURE!

I agreed with the guard that it “would be best” if I had some protection and headed for the other exit.

Hot damn! If PHC came to LA every week, I’d be a real junky.