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John Bruce/Daily Nebraskan
Faded grass, boredom ...
Nebraska’s national image not helped by drab UNL promo
During my first vacation from Ne
braska, I learned that our state is
sometimes viewed as less than a
bastion of progressive thinking. I think
it was a boy from San Francisco that
shrugged his nose at my home state,
and then comforted me by saying "you
seem pretty cool for being from Ne
braska.”
My ego was bruised. I fell as though
all my life had been spent in the minor
leagues.
After a few more vacations, I de
cided that kids from the coasts were
nothing special. Most seemed like
children caught up in cliques and fads
while the art of being human drifted
past them.
I reveled in my self-proclaimed
horse sense and earthiness, and in the
samequalitiesof my fellow statesmen.
To me, Nebraska was special. The
people here were special. One million
Will Rogers’ enlightening each other
with glorious straight talk and subtle
ties. I became a missionary on vaca
tions. I would defend my people to the
end.
Through quagmires of Hollywood
and advertising stereotypes, I debated
the inherent beauty of my slate, brush
ing aside the belligerent with tales of a
million REAL people. Sophisticated,
honest, hard-working citizens, all
blessed with wit and a genuine under
standing of people and the world they
live in.
Maybe I exaggerated a little, but my
. sermons usually worked. Johnny
Whoever would go back to New York
and write me letters about the horrors
of his city and his people. He would
want to move to Lincoln. He would
want to attend the University of Ne
braska-Lincoln with me and live
with the true vanguard.
That was until the first televised
Nebraska football game of the year.
Johnny’s image of Nebraska and
its largest university probably sur
vived intact through the first half.
The Big Red Machine marching up
and down the field with reserved
utilitarian brilliance, doing exactly
what must be done to obliterate and
nothing more. Tom Osborne watch
ing quietly from the sideline as the
announcers dribble on about his bril
liance, pausing only to dribble about
his saint-like persona.
Johnny was banking his spare
change for a plane ticket to this Nir
vana, visions of prairie dancing in his
head.
His visions collapsed during the
next commercial break.
It was the UNL promotional spot
... starring Chancellor Martin Mas
sengale.
Johnny probably watched in hor
ror as the camera scanned the cam
pus. Lit by stark midday sun and
adorned with blazing concrete and
browning expanses, this video pos
sessed all the professionalism of a
1950s home video.
Massengale then boomed promo
tions over the Mister Microphone,
speaking with the conviction and
style only a comatose accountant
could muster.
Within seconds the commercial
was over. Johnny and millions of
other prospective Nebraskans sat in
disbelief. They had been right from
the beginning. Nebraska sucks.
Of course, I knew better. This
promo spot was just a mistake. Many
years ago, the university — in its
valiant effort to save money — hired
hungover freshman oroaacasung
majors to present our school to the
world. Massengale was not told that
the camera was on. He was not aware
of the paramount importance of his
performance.
So now its time to try again.
In our new promotional spot,
Massengale will be walking majesti
cally through the Willa Gather Gar
den with the warm glow of a fall
prairie sunset peaking out from the
sides of Hamilton Hall. The chancel
lor will eloquently deliver his ser
mon, ever so slightly eluding to any
thing Loren Eiseley ever said. He will
then stop and proudly survey his
campus with a gleam of satisfaction
and an cver-so-slighl Bono pose.
The next 15 seconds will be spent
showing what the university is doing
well. The quality cameras and cam
eramen will make everything
Charlton Heston says about our
campus fascinating.
The last few seconds will be spent
with the chancellor and his campus.
He’ll say something profound like
“The University of Nebraska-Lin
coln . . . where the world turns for
knowledge” and saunter off towards
the sunset.
Before the music can crescendo
and the promotional spot of the cen
tury can end, Johnny will be some
where over Ohio, counting the re
maining moments of his flight to the
promise land.
And native Nebraskans will stand
proud with the knowledge that their
stale finally got represented well in
the national media.
But that’s just a dream. For now,
Johnny’s quite satisfied with the
coast.
Nelson is a Junior newveditorial major
and is the Summer Daily Nebraskan editor.
He is currenUy filling In for editorial page
editor Charles Lieurance, who is on vaca
tion.
Special circumstances
produce special needs
it’s the kind of news story that
will make many people angry,
get them ranting about the waste
of their tax dollars, griping about
special privileges that they don’t
have.
An old editor I worked for years
ago had a name for that kind of story:
boob-rousing.
And I saw a classic example of it
this week, when a front-page headline
blared: “Jesse Asks to Keep U.S.
Bodyguards.”
The story was accurate, if over
blown. Yes, even though his cam
paign is over and he lost, Jackson is
going to keep his Secret Service body
guard detail.
I
It’s not known how long the federal
agents will guard him. Nor is it known
how many bodyguards he will have.
Making that kind of information pub
lic could undermine his protection.
But the reaction was predictable. I
hadn’t finished my morning coffee
when an angry suburban woman was
on the phone. demanding to know why
a defeated candidate should continue
being protected.
“I don’t sec anyone protecting Paul
Simon or any of the others,” she said.
Thai’s true. Simon, Gephardt and
the others arc now on their own.
“Then why should they be spend
ing our money on him?” She almost
spit out the word “him.” “What makes
him special?”
I told her that I had the distinct
impression that she didn’t like
Jackson.
“That’s right, I don’t,” she said.
“But that’s not the point. He should be
treated just like the others. He
shouldn’t receive special treatment.”
Wrong. Jackson shouldn’t be
treated like the other defeated candi
dates. And he should receive special
treatment because he’s a special case.
The other candidates don’t receive
the kind of threats, the crazy letters
and the vicious phone calls, that come
into Jackson’s offices.
Let’s be realistic. Of the 200 mil
lion-plus people in this country, there
arc very few who have an obsessive
hatred ot mild-mannered senators
who wear bow ties. So Paul Simon’s
problem never has been that some
body might shoot him; it’s always
been finding someone who won’t
doze off while listening to him.
But of the 200 million-plus people
in this country, there are a consider
able number who, to put it mildly,
dislike Jesse Jackson. To put it less
mildly, they hate him.
Most of them are content to just sit
there and have a good hate, their
stomach acids churning when he’s on
television, their blood pressure rising
when they see his picture in their
newspaper.
The vast majority aren’t danger
ous. They’ll swear and call him names
and say nasty things that are contrary
to the teachings of Jesus, who most of
them think highly of, but they aren’t a
menace to anything but their own
stomach linings.
However, when you have millions
of halers, in a country that has mil
lions o f pri vatel y-owned firearm s. the
law of averages says that you’re going
to have a certain number of haters
who are dangerous. Some hear
strange voices in their heads, which is
why a rock star can be killed outside
his home. Others believe it is their
duly to save their country or race from
some threat that festers in a dark
comer of their brains, which is why
presidents, aspiring presidents and
civil rights leaders have been shot.
It’s not solely that Jackson is black,
although that’s the No. 1 reason. As
well as the No’s. 2 and 3 reasons.
But he also inspires strong and
deep emotions, stronger and deeper
than any politician in my adult life.
While that gift can be a ticket to
success in politics, it also can be a
ticket to the emergency room. Those
who have attracted assassins — the
Kennedys, Reagan, Martin Luther
King, George Wallace — have one
thing in common: They weren’t
bland. They generated electricity.
(Don’t ask me to explain the woman
who tried to do in Gerald Ford; she
may be the strangest of them all.)
So, yes. Jackson should be given
Secret Service protection as long as
he’s involved in this presidential
campaign and as long as the nuts keep
writing and calling. If I were running
his security, I’d have him wearing
bullet-proof longjohns.
The cost is trivial. The paychecks
of those agents doesn’t add up to the
cost of one tank that doesn’t shift
gears or one bomber that doesn’t fly.
And we have a lot of those.
If you want to think of it as just
dollars and cents, ask the mayors of
Detroit, Chicago and several other
riot-tom cities what the cost was in
1968, after Dr. King was killed. If
anything, protecting Jackson is a
prudent investment.
Or you might think of the cost of
his protection this way: If we’re going
to hate a politician mainly because
he’s black (please, be honest), we
ought to pay for it. Sort of a hate-tax.
Come to think of it, if we ever had
a real hate-tax in this country, we
could balance the budget.
C19M by Um Chicago Tribune
Distributed by the
Tribune Media Services, Inc.