Somewhat better than lutefisk: the loaf of meat at a new joint on South Congress called, I am sorry to say, The Woodland. It is the sort of place that sells plates of “comfort food” for $12, has a fake tree growing in the middle of the room, and alludes to whipped potatoes as “mashers.”
Great news! I have figured out how to defeat patriarchy.
No, wait a minute. Upon further reflection, I’m afraid it turns out that all my solutions involve the intervention of imaginary 3rd party aliens.
One of which aliens, as long as I am winging along on a flight of fancy, would be under strict instructions to deal sternly with humble down-home liberal gasbag Garrison Keillor, perhaps by stuffing a quantity of lutefisk, made by modest Lutheran church ladies, into his folksy old piehole and applying ducktape thereupon. For though the dude makes it easier to accept as an axiom that old people are all bigots, one despairs to hear him in action.
I allude to remarks tendered by Keillor in a recent essay published in Salon, wherein he lets loose, in a mocking tone, a string of gay stereotypes that, if I had hair, would’ve curled it. Surely you’ve seen it by now? It’s the one where Keillor, a sexist asshole and serial mack-daddy of some renown, makes himself ridiculous as a shill for heterosexual monogamy, on the grounds that it protects innocent children from the horrors of “hyphenated” — i.e. step — relatives, and from pairs of “sardonic,” “flamboyant,” campy-performer-worshipin’, chartreuse-pants-wearin’ “daddies.”
Lake Woebegone is where Rockwellian fantasies of a honky smalltown godbag greatest-generation America go to rot; would that it could also contain the paternalistic, pretentiously faux-rustic prattlings of its delusional old fart creator.