He Who Laughs Last

As I've said many times in this space, and as virtually the entire blogosphere knows, James Lileks is a great writer, a humorist in the classical sense, capable of mixing poignance, rage, intelligence, love and bathos into a zany laff riot. Like most bloggers (almost all of whom link to him), I hover about, reading his stuff, hoping to find cast-off bits of his talent at the writers consignment shop (Uptown, 32nd and Hennepin).

But, finally, I'm ahead of him on one thing. He's been assimilated. Here's the story.

Like me, James is an expat North Dakotan. He's from Fargo's urban jungles. I'm from Jamestown - a more western outpost.

Years ago - no, years ago, when Lileks was filling in for Bob Yates at KSTP, he was talking about scenery. This, obviously, was in the days before "talk radio" meant "politics all the time'.

I called, and asked:

"James? You're from North Dakota, too. Don't you think that the prairie, in its own way, is just as beautiful as the mountains? I mean, in a nuanced, subtle kind of way, all in the little details, in the same way that a really great line drawing is just as uplifting and interesting as a busy Classical scene study? I mean, the nuances of the prairie grass against the magnificence of the sky, the sounds...don't you think?"

He answered:

"No".

So today's Bleat comes out - and I'm astonished to see this, referring to Fargo's recession-proof (this time) economy and local leaders' efforts to pitch the city:

Climate, I’ll grant them. It’s marrow-cracking cold in the winter. Big deal. So you dress in layers. As for scenery, it takes an unimaginative mind not to see the glory of the prairie - after you’ve seen the Panavision sky change nine times in the course of a day, mountains look so obvious, so tired. Imagine a mountain range that reshapes itself hourly, and you have the cloud banks of the North Dakota prairie. And this sight is available to all, unimpeded by any signs of civilization, five minutes from the Barnes and Noble. You can put down your Starbucks, drive west, stop, and behold a magnificent void that humbles your heart more than any city skyline or coastal view. It’s not for everyone; it has its chilling existential implications, but don’t say they don’t have scenery. When you hit the Great Plains, the sky is your IMAX, and it’s open 24/7.

Just what I said, fifteen years ago!

Only, like, better.

Someday, I'll write my own paeon to the place James and I (and Swen) left behind.

Til then, there's plenty of work to do.

Posted by Mitch at November 22, 2002 07:44 AM