wry ry

As a dedicated, though sometimes-reluctant member of the Midwest peoples, I must admit Bill Gusky has a point.

Growing up in a place so plane, so continuously horizontal, one must draw up a wry sense of humor just to survive.

The flatness almost seems to seep into your being after a few years; your voice becomes flat, your hair flattens out, you and your loved ones may become flat chested or flat-footed. In many cases your general personality seems to flatten a bit.

I think as far as Bill is concerned, though he seems to genuinely miss these parts, his escape from St. Louis County which landed him in New England (a place I secretly wish to spend my later years) has lent him an equally valuable perspective.

Aside from the junipers and mountain laurels, (which I think sound lovely) you’ve got your maple syrup, your clam chowder, top o’ the line Universities, Emerson, Dickinson, Melville, the home of American Literature.

This quality and variety is emulated in Bill Guskys Artblog Comments, where he writes candidly about anything from the reciprocal values between braid theory and post-structuralism, to the playfulness of Tuttle’s paint on wood.

To be honest Bill, I could do without ever having to hear the words “PorkSteak” again.