How an Elder Millennial Remembers PJ O’Rourke
Lyndsey Fifield /
The passing of P.J. O’Rourke caught many of his longtime readers by surprise. At 74, he kept his battle with lung cancer completely private—so private, in fact, that for many hours after the news of his death first began to filter out on social media, many people questioned if it was actually true. After a lifetime of blessing the world with his comedic genius and sharing so much of himself, it was fitting that the world wasn’t invited to witness his final days.
I must admit I feel out of my depth writing about him. When I first sat down and prepared to write, it seemed gauche, considering the steady stream of beautiful tributes that have been printed about him over the last 24 hours—all carefully crafted by those who knew him well.
The response from those who read his works in proper generational context made me question what valuable insights I, an elder millennial, could possibly contribute in reflection of a man whose works spanned decades of American life that perhaps I don’t really understand.
So, instead of even trying to match their praise, in proper millennial fashion, I will make this about myself and tell you about the time he got me grounded for a month—and the butterfly effect his words had on the trajectory of my life.
When I first encountered the inimitable work of P.J. O’Rourke, I was very flagrantly breaking the rules.
While our family bookshelves were open to all and no books or authors on them were off limits, there was one very clearly stated exception: “You may not read those books until you’re old enough to understand them.”
My mother’s commandment, which she made while pointing at a stack of O’Rourke’s books she had just pulled out of a UPS package, was clear. The fervent nod and “yes, ma’am” I gave in response meant there was no way I could possibly pretend I hadn’t heard her.
Of course, that made the loud, glossy covers of his books so much more appealing.
It wasn’t long after that I slipped “Age and Guile Beat Youth, Innocence, and a Bad Haircut” off the shelf when no one was looking and read it over the span of a few days while tucked in the space between my bed and wall.
Since my brothers and I were homeschooled, this was perfectly normal behavior (being that we had no reference point for normal), and nobody bothered to look at what I was reading until my laughter became so constant and so loud that my little brother came to inquire and then immediately ran off to tattle about what I was up to.
I sat frozen on my bedroom floor with the forbidden tome in my hands, simultaneously wondering if I could somehow conceal my blatant disobedience but also finish the chapter before having it taken away from me—knowing it would be years before I’d be allowed to see it again.
It hadn’t taken me long to figure out why I wasn’t supposed to be reading this book. I’d never read so many curse words in my life—not to mention the extremely graphic yet also delightfully irreverent descriptions of sex, drugs, and life in communist countries. Previously, the only time I had ever even heard the F-word was when my grandfather got cut off on the “Dolly Parton Bridge” and swerved to avoid oncoming traffic.
As an adult, and now also the mother of a little girl, I’m horrified to think back to 13-year-old me sitting Indian style, nervously picking lint out of my carpet, mouth agape, innocent brown eyes taking in material far beyond my comprehension, yet cackling with glee.
Thanks to God in His mercy, it was my father who appeared in the doorway shortly after to confront his little sinner. He wasn’t pleased but was also not prone to the explosive rage of my mother when faced with the shortcomings of her offspring (and oh, what many shortcomings we had!)
He seemed to be stifling laughter himself, but since he hadn’t actually ever read that particular O’Rourke book before, he didn’t realize quite how raunchy it was. But he knew enough: “Lyndsey, there is no way you actually understand any of the references he’s making.”
He wasn’t wrong. Since it was 1998 and I was just barely 13, I couldn’t Google things like “what is cocaine etiquette?” or “students killed at Kent State University in 1970,” and I had no context for any of it—which is why I had carefully written down a list of notes of everything I didn’t understand with the intention of discreetly asking about it at dinner that night.
Oh, it gets better.
As my dad reached down to pry the book from my hands, I wised up and released my grip, knowing I was already pressing my luck. His sharp command, “Don’t tell your mother,” was proverbial music to a naughty child’s ears but also put the fear of God back in my heart where it belonged.
I instantly committed to be on my best behavior—right after shooting a withering glance at my little brother who was waiting in the hallway to learn my fate.
Sadly, that commitment didn’t last very long because just two days later, when I was playing soccer with a dozen other very conservative homeschooled children, we were assaulted by the deafening shrill of a whistle. Every child froze on the spot and looked over as the coach (a mom in a calf-length denim jumper) glared at me with an ashen face and eyes full of horror and rage. I didn’t even know a simple plastic whistle could reach that frequency.
“Lyndsey. Fifield. Come here. Right. Now.” Each word punctuated by a mouth full of venom.
I honestly had no clue what I’d done wrong as I sheepishly went over to her and a semi-circle of adults.
“What type of language was that?” another mother asked.
It was then that it hit me.
“Oh… could you hear me?”
One dad barely stifled a laugh and said, “Oh, yes… we could hear you.”
Apparently, while I was running to kick my very first goal, I had also been very audibly letting out a self-motivating stream of absolutely vile expletives (under my breath… so I thought).
The next question was more convicting and made my heart skip a beat: “Where did you hear those words?”
There was no way I was going to rat out P.J. O’Rourke.
Think fast, Lyndsey. “I don’t know!”
A perfect cover-up.
“You don’t know?!”
“I don’t know,” I repeated, losing my resolve.
It was at that moment from the corner of my eye I saw my mother’s periwinkle blue minivan turn into the parking lot.
Oh, the humanity.
Strangely, the next few moments are not burned into my hippocampus as they should be, given the trauma that surely followed. I only remember my mother’s (expletive-free) lecture on the ride home and the punishment that came down that night after dinner. It would be the harshest punishment I would face until three years later (when Chelsea McCray and I got busted sneaking out of church to get Taco Bell with the bad boys from the youth group): I was grounded for two weeks.
Now, you’re probably thinking of the “Full House” version of being grounded. Going straight home after school, no friends or phone calls, no parties or trips to the mall… ha. I wish. As a child being homeschooled in rural Alabama, that was my baseline. In our household, the definition of “grounded” meant extra chores.
After a day of pulling weeds and raking gravel between the greenhouse tables at my parents’ nursery, I came inside and plopped down on the couch, my eye catching the row of O’Rourke’s books now positioned on the top shelf—completely out of place beside a handsome set of 100-year-old classics.
I was surprised they hadn’t been locked in my parents’ closet with the guns and Christmas presents. Since I was already a fallen woman and was already suffering for my sins, I figured I might as well finish reading the book.
Maybe I was delirious from hard labor or maybe I was entering the rebellious phase I had read about in the well-worn copy of James Dobson’s “The Strong-Willed Child” that lived on my mother’s nightstand for most of my childhood. Whatever it was that possessed me to pull that book down and flip to the page I had last reached weeks earlier also kept me sitting right there, in broad daylight.
The hubris.
Not 10 minutes later, I had finished another short story and was well into another when the back door swung open and my mother appeared.
Once again, my memory fails me.
My parents employed a rotation of teenaged boys to help with landscaping jobs and work around the nursery and our farm. I remember one of them was standing outside on the patio, his baseball cap pulled low over his eyes as he pretended not to hear my mother’s hair-curling rant. I was more upset that an outsider was bearing witness to my shame than I was that I, once again, would not be able to finish that damn book until I was in college.
Many years later when I looked back to the page of notes I had scribbled while reading the book, a line stood out: “literary critic after English major.” As it turned out, I did go on to become an English major. Since I knew absolutely nothing about anything, it felt so right and romantic—and I had no idea the lifetime of ridicule and dismissive eyerolls I would have to endure as a result.
I’m sure P.J. O’Rourke isn’t solely responsible for my academic career choices—and he’s certainly not responsible for my still-terrible habit of swearing—but I can say with confidence that his side-splitting missives persuaded me that Washington, D.C., was where I belonged.
I should confess here that I felt inadequate for most of my life—like everyone else was in on a secret that I hadn’t been told. I walked through life worried that if I said too much, I would accidentally reveal how little I really understood about the world.
Then I came to Washington and realized P.J. wasn’t exaggerating—absolute morons are elevated to positions of power and responsibility far beyond their competence. The first time I had an extended conversation with an Ivy League graduate, I realized he had the mental capacity (but, luckily, also the charm) of a golden retriever. If he could make it here, I would be just fine.
From the day I got caught red-handed for the second time and added another two weeks to my sentence, it would be more than 10 years before I was able to pick up another copy of “Age and Guile.” I distinctly remember thinking, “Well, I still don’t get most of these references”—but at that point, I could consult Google.
So today, I can think of no better way for us to toast P.J.’s memory than by pulling his books off our shelves and giving them another read.
Before I lock them up in my closet and out of sight from my children. Until they’re older.
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