The Same Old Song
I have perused the avalanche of Nick Coleman commentary from the blogosphere, including this insightful rendering:
Nick Coleman, colunista do Minneapolis Star-Tribune, escreveu um artigo (acesso mediante registo gratuito) acusando o Power Line de fazer parte de uma cadeia de blogues de direita dedicados a atacar a imprensa mainstream, ao serviço de certos "poderes"
And my meta analysis yields the conclusion that the primary reaction is:
Where are Nick Coleman's editors? Can't they intervene to prevent him from hurting himself or others (like the Star Tribune's reputation) again?
I do not know the answer to that question. But I will say it is not a new question. As a matter of fact, almost exactly one year ago today, that question was posed regarding Nick Coleman. No this wasn't in reference to a rage against progress and the irresistible tide of the future column. No, this was regarding something far more disturbing. That is, the poetry of Nick Coleman.
For years and years and years, someone named Bill McAuliffe has been submitting end of the year poems to the Star Tribune, attempting to summarize the events of the year in a light-hearted, amusing way. In execution it is, year after year, absolute doggerel. Corny, clichéd, disrythmic, dyspeptic pap.
For whatever reason, it is the Star Tribune's tradition to publish it, year after year after blessed year. (Suspected reason, the entrenched nonresponsiveness of a monopoly toward consumer demand.) But last year, the annual McAuliffe epic was deemed insufficient to satisfy the complete lack of demand for it. So Nick Coleman wrote virtually the same poem a few days later - and they published it!
Click here for all the sordid details (because, lord knows, you won't find them in the Star Tribune archives anymore). I'll sum up now as I did then about the oversight at the Star Tribune:
Embarrassingly out of touch or embarrassingly out of control? My money is on the latter, but I wouldn't be surprised at either.
By the way, as the end of the year draws near, the clock is ticking down to the magic hour when McAuliffe's poem is published again. The only question is, will there just be one of these things or two? The paid circulation waits ... and worries.