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In Praise Of Laziness Surę. summer is over. but thafs no reason to bccomc a working stiiTagain By GARRISON KEILOR Sep. 10, 2001

I dont opinc on matters beyond my personal expericnccbecause when I do I am wrong approximately two-thirds of the time, a poor avcragc, worse tlian the Presidcnt's, but now, after five wceks of doing nothing, I ani an authority on tlić subject of indolencc and glacl to share my views with you.

First of all, tlie way to get five wecks of vacation is to bave open-heart surgery. It is tlie pcrfcct covcr. Bipolar depression is a downer and TB makes your friends ncrvous andahip replaccmcnt is terribly inconvcnient, but cardiac surgery- poses few risks, is mostly painless and has a grandeur about it that erases all obligations, social and professional. It is tlie Get Out of Work card. All you do is put a hand to your ebest, and people hołd the door open for you and help you into a rocker.

So herc I sit on my sunny tcrrace. Therc’s a soda-water fouutain and the buzzing of the bees in the cigarettc trees, just like in the song. I sit in my pajamas and work the 'fimes crossword and sip peppermint tea and. it being aimost Labor Day, I sit and think about work. And tlien I writc a limerick. Of all the useless tliings a person can do, li merick writing is right up there with golf and fishing.

Thcrc was a young Jady of D.C. Who was liberał and tastcful and p.c. Exccpt now and then Shc cnjoycd redneck men Who didn't know A.D. from B.C. ^,rWhcn it comcs to tlie masculinc specie," She said, "1 like vulgar and greasy. Scnsitive guys Tend to theologize And I am not St. Clare of Assisi." It takes half an hour to writc tliis. It is useless work. But I'm ąuite happy about rhyming greasy with Assisi. Happiness is in tlie details. An indolcnt man awakes in tlie moming and tliinks. "Wow. A shower with shampoo with aloe in it. Then orange juice not madę from conccutrate. Sevcn-grain toast with butter. Jamaican coffee. One Across: A waitress (slang)," and he gets all giddy and happy.

Back when I was a kid. I spent a summer picking potatoes at a neighbor's farm. Slouchcd up and down the rows, stooped ovcr, dragging a burlap bag flill of spuds, dust in my nostrils, body all aching and racked with pain, and it secnis to mc that I havc been picking potatoes in one fonu or another cver sińce. The boss man, Mr. Marse, kept tclling me thatpotato picking is a great challenge and a boon to civilization and the manly thing to do and that if I quit working, my life would losc purpose and meaning and I would be unable to bcar tlie shame.

You wcrc wrong about that, Mr. Marse.

It is a love!y lifc, doing nothing. God nevcr intended for me to work bard. I can sec that now. My tnie calling is to !ivc uncncumbered and .fol Iow the fleeting impulses of my hcart and take a nap around 2 p.m. whetlier I want to or not. I worked hard for years out of plain fcar and ignorance and also to impress womcu and have the funds to takc tliem to restaurants that scrve poached salmon with a light saffron saucc on a bed of roses and then bring them home to Tara and when tbey say. "Wow! Wliat a big housc you have!" to say, "Comc in and let me show you my art."

Work is what sets us apart. You are wliat you do. People ask, "Wliat linę of work did you say you'rc in?" and if you say, "I am a brain surgeon" to somconc who washes dishes professionally, hc backs up, bowing. But a man who spends five wceks lounging in his pajamas is a plain old bum like the ones at the bus depot. There are not varieties of bumhood, sonie morę crcativc or distinguished than others. Indolencc is, like all religious expcrienccs, totally self-cffacing.

You cfface the sclf you'vc worked hard to asscmble over tlie years and you fecl a ncw you emerge, a niccr you, cal mer, coolcr. casier-going. Tlić you you rcally are and not the guy you constructcd at the U and from Gary Cooper movies and tailored to the needs of Mubbard, Buttrick, Bickford & Barncs and re-tuncd in therapy with Dr. Koron. Now you bccome the you you wcrc affaid tlie world would find out about. Goombah, homeboy, cowpoke or hobo. Or, in my casc, a limericist. But tlie sun shines on me still, and like any other poct I am gathering rosebuds whilc I may, for the glory of flowcrs too soon is past and summer hath too short a lease and licre it is, already gonc, alas, alas.