Jess Brownell searches for the real middle of the real middle America where the real Americans live. And he finds wisdom.
By Jess Brownell
Guardian publisher Bruce Brugmann has kindly asked me to produce a blog for these virtual pages. He is an old friend, and a transplanted Midwesterner, and he seems to believe, bless him, that people in the Bay area might benefit from the opinions of a cranky old man in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. We’ll see about that.
Milwaukee, for those of you unfamiliar with it, is a place with piles of snow, enough water (for ourselves, mind you), and potholes big enough to engulf a Smart Car, if we had any. As for Wisconsin, it’s a relatively placid state that has never chosen a professional wrestler as governor (that was Minnesota), has never been infested by Romneys (that was Michigan), and is not required by custom to reserve a large number of jail cells for its elected officials (that, of course, is Illinois). People in Wisconsin have harbored a certain resentment towards California for surpassing us in dairy production, but given the current state of the industry, that hardly seems worth mentioning.