At eight o’clock, the lights go down and tall, lanky Garrison Keillor walks on stage to a round of applause. The tools that await him are sparse: just a microphone, a stool, and a glass of water that he only touches once to move it out of his way. Keillor is in his mid-sixties now. He is wearing a brown sport jacket, white dress shirt, and solid red tie, along with faded blue jeans six inches too short to emphasize his bright red socks and red Saucony sneakers.

He begins to sing sonnets, some humorous, some touching, one after another. Afterwards, he immediately launches into a story about “his people” (growing up in Minnesota) and for a full hour and a half the entire theater is spellbound. We laugh for a solid ninety minutes, and then, like an apparition he walks off the stage and disappears into the night.

No autographs. No pictures. No handshakes. Just an amazing gift of ninety minutes of rich storytelling.

I don’t know if storytelling is a dying art so much as it is just rare. And in my humble opinion, Garrison Keillor stands as the best of this rare breed. Hands down, my favorite.

You can have your television shows, your movies, and your iPods. Catch me on the right day and I’ll even give you the things I enjoy more, the blogs, the sporting events, and the theater. But when law school ends, be sure to give me back my books. And give me someone skilled in telling a story – preferably Garrison Keillor. Lost in the world of imagination, slowly savoring each morsel of a delectable story, I’ll be just fine.

It was a nice trip to Lake Wobegon last evening, and I’m looking forward to going back soon.