By far, the nastiest hit job on Minnesotans was done by the Coen brothers (who grew up in a suburb of Minneapolis) in the film Fargo. I was so embarrassed I couldn’t sit through it, and made my wife get up and leave the theater with me.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“I can’t stand to watch it.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Let’s get drunk.”

The problem was that the portrayal of Minnesotans was dead on (forgive the pun). We actually talk that way. Moreover, we’re that greedy and backstabbing. Minnesota-nice only applies when you’re talking to someone face-to-face. Behind their backs, we’re free to destroy them in any way we please.

It took me years before I could actually watch the film all the way through. But we’re not all that way. Take the last series of elections. Despite electing Michelle Bachmann twice and sending Norm Coleman to the Senate, we never once fell into the Bush column. We are, by and large, discerning folks.

I mention the Coens because they’re the last of my triumvirate of Minnesota critics. They make Garrison Keillor and Dick Guindon (below) seem mild by comparison. I guess growing up in St. Louis Park wasn’t all that much fun.

On this cold and blustery day in December, I feel like saying something about Garrison Keillor, Minnesota’s favorite son, though I’m not entirely sure what to say. I suppose this is because Garrison is an institution. What do you say about the Minnesota Institute of Arts, the Guthrie Theater, or the Walker, except they’re there, they have nice shows, and they’ve been a part of our heritage for ages?

I first started listening to Garrison when he had his own morning program at the University of Minnesota radio station. This was a long time ago. He was fresh-faced then, unpolished, and not quite so sure of himself. Whenever I could, I tuned him in. Because he was successful and needed a wider audience, he moved his program to Minnesota Public Radio, where he became a household name. When he got the idea for a Prairie Home Companion and started writing, Garrison became known internationally. (When English acquaintances learn I’m from Minnesota, the first name they mention is Garrison Keilor’s.) In a sense, Garrison has put Minnesota on the map.

The only out-of-character thing Garrison ever did was leave Minnesota in a huff for New York City. This happened because a local journalist described in delicious detail Garrison’s pursuit of his Danish lover while he was still married. Keillor didn’t like being portrayed as a bad guy. Who can blame him? Like many people in the public eye, he hated having his privacy invaded. He said he was never coming back, but, of course, he did. Both Garrison and Minnesota needed each another. Who is Costello without Abbott? Or George Burns without Gracie Allen? Garrison had no idea how to make fun of New Yorkers.

I still like listening to his monologues. He’s a very funny man, but I can do without the music and the schlock. I miss his young voice with its deep resonance, honesty, and range (it’s become tinny in old age). There was something magical about him then, before he became a polished celebrity. He was a joy because you never knew what he might put on the turntable or say next. If I ran across Garrison at a party (which, of course, is never going to happen), I wouldn’t dream of introducing myself or trying to chat him up. There would be no surprises. I’d already know everything he might say.