A fine night in York, Pennsylvania

The Column: 09.23.24

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I walked into the Baltimore airport at 7:15 Friday morning, checked a bag, and walked to the end of the endless Boarding line, which moved swiftly back and forth between the straps, was sniffed by a dog, photographed by a TSA lady, went through the hypermagnetic sonar encephaloscanner, was declared sane, and got to a café near my gate and my coffee was poured at 7:40. A good beginning to a day.

The night before I had done my solo show at the Strand Theatre in York, PA. The stage looked big and empty and I worried that the audience would expect me to dance or do cartwheels so I did the show from the house, walking up and down the aisles, which people seemed to like. I start off by singing a prayer, an Episcopal rouser, an anti-thong song, a hymn to perseverance (“So do your work, keep going straight ahead, and you can be a genius after you are dead”), an homage to summer and a descriptive song about the journey of sperm in search of a willing egg, all from memory while ambulating in close proximity to the customers and shaking a few hands. At first I was blinded by the spotlight and had to tread carefully lest I trip and land in someone’s lap but I ascended about one-third of the way back and then I could see people so I did the show from there — 400 people could see me and for the 200 down front it was like radio.

I told them that Pennsylvania is in a tough spot, as a big swing state, and on Election Night when the state is called, the side it votes for will figure, “Well of course, but why such a narrow margin?” and the other side will despise them and never buy another Hershey’s bar ever. I announced that I was a Kamalaist because I’m tired of my gender being held responsible for leadership, it’s time for women to take their turn. This harmless joke did not land all that well, like the crowd was maybe one-third Trumpian, maybe more, and so I veered off in a patriotic direction — “We’re all Americans and we have more in common than we have to argue about” (a dubious assertion, I know plenty of Americans who, if I were hitchhiking and they picked me up, I’d ask to be let out) and I hummed a note and sang “My country, ’tis of thee” and they were all with me and it was stunningly beautiful. I don’t exaggerate. They sang softly in four-part harmony. So we did “God Bless America” and “Shenandoah” and “My Girl” and “How Great Thou Art,” which most stand-up comics wouldn’t include but I’m 82 and get to make my own rules and the crowd was touched by their own singing.

And then I went into some comical stem-winding about the beauties of old age, one being that your career is over, your ambition is exhausted, and now you get to have fun, which I proceeded to do at length, and we sang the Beatles’ “In My Life” as I exited out through the lobby.

After the show I stood out on the curb and talked to people, not about politics, though a man did point out that York had briefly, during the Revolution, been General Washington’s HQ when the Brits were in Philly and so was the de facto nation’s capital. Okay, then. But I did wonder how these good people could pass up a smart public-spirited well-spoken woman who is up on the issues for an angry real-estate tycoon who has adopted the style of a professional wrestler and who believes that an outrageous lie repeated repeatedly thereby becomes passable. The man is a living satire of male ego and blather. He is also 78 and if you read transcripts of his speeches, you think his family needs to think about conservatorship. The beloved country has a month in which to come to its senses. There is, among young men, a taste for outright fascism that we never had noticed before. Thank you, Taylor Swift. Now where is Laura Bush? Nikki Haley, time to change your mind and save your soul.

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