Stardate 20020402.1233

(On Screen): A big Attaboy for Bjørn Stærk, for perpetrating what has to be considered the most effective April Fool's Day hoax in blogotopia. (And an Attagirl to Virginia Postrel for the link to his blog which was key to its success.)

Yesterday, Alex Beam of the Boston Globe decided to do a hatchet job on bloggers. Showing his objectivity and clear lack of agenda in taking on this task, he wrote to James Lileks as follows:

James, weren't you once a talented humor writer? Why are you churning out this web dreck? I can't tell if these bleats about Rod Serling or the Palestinians are diluting your humor work, because I can't claim to know it well enough, but I certainly have my suspicions.

Feel free to respond: I am writing a column (deadline: Monday 11 am) on bloggers who might benefit from a less arduous writing schedule.

At least he didn't call him "Jim". (Thank Heaven for small favors.)

Andrew Sullivan reports that he received a comparably baiting letter, which he hasn't reproduced. (Alas.)

Beam's column begins by taking Lileks apart for the mundanity of the material he writes about:

At his site called the Daily Bleat (www.lileks.com), humor writer James Lileks spews forth about his lovely child, the leaking fridge, and late-night television (Rod Serling is ''overrated''), and even began a recent meditation on events in the Mideast with the words ''I don't know what to say today. I really don't.'' My point precisely.

Which proves that even a pro like Beam doesn't understand the point: it's not what you talk about that's important, it's how you write. A great story teller can describe the most prosaic events and make them spellbinding, whereas a bad writer can put you to sleep while talking about the most important things there are. (Note to Beam: Please attend a performance by Garrison Keillor. Then read "Life on the Mississippi" or "Roughing it".) I like James' discussions about his little girl; she's a keeper, and James makes her at least a little bit real to me. And the ongoing saga of it is greater than the sum of its parts; it is the continuing experience of reading about it daily that makes the experience grow. One such column is amusing; a series of them become addictive if it is written by someone who is talented. And when the writer cares about what he (or she) is writing about, it will nearly always be better. (And given James' devotion to Gnat, it's difficult to see how anyone could care more about their subject matter.)

The mistake Beam makes about James is to think that James has ceased his other writing and made this his sole outlet. Given that James just had a book published and writes a regular syndicated newspaper column, that is clearly not the case. James writes those other things (and writes them well) to sell, and he writes the Bleat simply because he wants to. He shares it with us because he is generous; we are all the richer for it.

Beam is the latest in what is becoming a long line of mainstream journalists to whistle in the graveyard about the rise of blogging. But what is sweet in this case is that Beam criticizes bloggers for not taking sufficient care and time to turn out a good product, and then proves his own haste and shallowness by falling for Bjørn's magnificent hoax. (Bjørn is completely entitled to feel smug today.) The irony meter just pegged "11".