
In a Thursday Bleader post I assailed the Tribune for (1) letting the headline "Who's fault?" show up Wednesday in its sports pages, and (2) not correcting the faux pas by Thursday online.
Denying neither charge, Tribune sports editor Mike Kellams has pointed out what I missed: the mea culpa — compete with a drawing of a dunce cap — the Tribune had posted online and in Thursday's paper. It can be seen here by following this link and scrolling down.
"How could we possibly have gotten that wrong? Because some days we're just stupid, that's how," explained the Tribune.
Unfortunately, having said what needed to be said, the Tribune forgot to correct the website. But that's since been done.
It's an excellent point, and one I should have made in the original article—not least of all because I think that, done right, summaries will actually increase the value and visibility of great writing.
Plessy appealed, and his case, Plessy v. Ferguson, ended up before the U.S. Supreme Court. By a vote of 7-1, the court found the Separate Car Act constitutional. States could not be expected to enforce "a commingling of the two races upon terms unsatisfactory to either," the high court said. Separating the races in railcars was no different than providing separate schools for whites and coloreds and forbidding interracial marriage, both of which were clearly within a state's powers, the majority said.
The problem with Plessy's argument, the court went on, was "the assumption that the enforced separation of the two races stamps the colored race with a badge of inferiority. If this be so, it is not by reason of anything found in the act, but solely because the colored race chooses to put that construction upon it."

In fact, I'm pretty sure I didn't appreciate them at all.
It was more like Miller—who died a few days ago—was this cool-looking cat who looked a little Paul Newman and was sticking it to the robber baron owners of the baseball players I worshipped.
So I added him to my list of childhood heroes, an eclectic group consisting of Mike Royko, Norm Van Lier, Foxy Brown, and assorted other characters, real and fictional, who were sticking it to the Man. Even if in some cases—i.e., Clint Eastwood's Dirty Harry—they were the Man.

Glenn Beck and Bill O'Reilly faced the same problem and have reinvented themselves as cultural critics. Glenn Beck heard about the guy who submerged the crucifix in a container of piss and, 25 years later, formulated his rebuttal: he would relieve himself in a jar and stick a little dashboard Barack Obama in it, and deem it art, and explain the project in a rambling disquisition in which he'd repeatedly cite the men's "ding-a-lings" that are so prominent a feature in the annals of Western art. Was this "provocative," as Beck intended? No, it was far too weird to provoke. It read, like any given public appearance by Ann Coulter, like a nuanced, multilayered performance piece, a send-up of a send-up of a send-up: satire so long dead that it had to be revivified, just so Glenn Beck could kill it again. The jar of Beck's piss sells for $25,000. "A fear of sex this latent but pronounced makes for a fantastically charged visual paradox," the art critic Jerry Saltz observed of the proceedings.

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