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About The daily Nebraskan. ([Lincoln, Neb.) 1901-current | View Entire Issue (Aug. 30, 1990)
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Automatic Teller Machines ^ • Get Cash & • Make Deposits | • Make Loan Payments | • Account Balance Inquiries I • Transfer Between Accounts S 16MV5 ■ ■ Conveniently Near You Lincoln I ,.jg . 44th and O, Texaco | . 13th and Q, Gunny's . 16th and M, Texaco • 13th and South, Gas + Plus • 33rd and Pioneers, Texaco ® « 56th and Holdrege, Kwik Shop • 56th and South, Kwik Shop m • 56th & Hiway 2, Alamo Shopping Center . 4500 Cornhusker, Kwik Shop | • 1 st and Cornhusker, Kwik Shop I . 27th & W, Kwik Shop • 48th & Madison, Kwik Shop ■ ■ Omaha 1 • 72nd and Crown Point, Kwik Shop • 95th and Q, Kwik Shop • 75th and Cass, Kwik Shop The Martell State Bank Martell, Nebraska 68404 I 794-5375 g Member FDIC (CLIP AND SAVEi■■■■■■■ J I Student loses desire for' 'jet-setting77 life By Jennifer Johnson Staff Reporter This summer I worked at a hotel in Montauk, Long Island, the east ernmost tip of Long Island, 120 miles from New York City. This was not just a tourist town but a playground for the rich and famous just beyond the ever-fa mous, upper-crusty “Hamptons.” At work I looked out the win dow all summer envying the wealthy families who just baked themselves to death by the pool. I could look out onto the Block Island Sound and see party boats headed for Rhode Island for the day. Let’s face it, I wanted to be rich and spoiled. One afternoon at the hotel a car came rolling into the parking lot on its rims. Not just a regular car but a brand new black Lincoln Mark VII with tinted windows. The interior was also fully loaded including a rosary dangling from the rear-view mirror and a picture of Jesus placed above the emergency brake. The drunken driver, a man whom I will call “Tony,” stumbled into the office bellowing that he needed a room. My boss looked at him and said, “What are you going to do about your car?” “You have it fixed for me," he said. So we called to have the car towed to town and then “Tony” started throwing $20 bills every where. He gave one child, a six week guest at the hotel, 20 bucks for getting him a cup of coffee. The next morning it rained. I rode to work on my bike and got soaked, setting a nice mood for the day. I went to have my “pre-work chat” with .my boss Ginny and I found out that “Tony” had char tered a boat the afternoon before (a mere $3,000 for the day) and had fallen off of the tuna tower when lighting a cigarette. This was a 36-foot fall on to the deck of the boat, so “Tony” was flown to the hospital in Westerly, R.I. My mission: to deliver “Tony’s” car to the hospital in Rhode Island because the trunk contained a “very important briefcase.” Now, there was a small geo graphical problem to figure out because my boss wanted me back by the end of the day. In order to get me back it was necessary to orchestrate the perfect plan. First I drove the car to Sag Harbor and caught a ferry boat to Shelter Island. I then had to drive across the island and catch another ferry to Greenport. Next I had to take a ferry from Orient Point (still New York) to Br idgeport, Conn. Until this point, the trip was not stressful because only 45 minutes had passed, but when the ferry had a hard time docking in the high winds of Con necticut, I realized I had only an hour to drive 45 miles to the hospi the only two people we knew there. A second, more intensive search of the station turned up nothing, and Captain Butch decided to ask a guy at the information desk if we could get our friends paged. “Yeah,” the guy said. “Yell their names real loud.” Captain Butch seized upon the negative aspects of our situation. “We’re dead,” he said. “We’re gonna die.” After debating that possibility forsome time, wc decided to make an attempt to get to Reuben and Pinsk’s apartment. Banana led us to a subway map. We stood silently in front of it, admiring one of the great, complex works of 20th cen tury abstract non-expressionism “I don’t think we’re qualified to obtain information from this thing,” I said. “But the colors sure are pretty.” Captain Butch and Banana agreed. So we took the near-fatal step With nothing more than an address and the vaguest notion of where we were going, we hailed a cab. “Where?” our cabbie asked in shaky English. His name was Pal ana. “The corner of Grecnpoint and Manhattan,” Banana said “Where’s dat?" See NYC on 12 I Unexpected arrival in Big Apple By Lisa Donovan Staff Reporter I lived out a dream by spending my last break between semesters living and working in New Jersey and hanging out in Manhattan. But the glorious illusions of liv ing near the bright lights and big city often resembled the lyrics of an R.E.M. song: "... Dreams they complicate my life . . .” Don't get me wrong --1 had fun. I learned a lot about journalism from the health magazines 1 worked for. And 1 learned a lot aboul the world — the real world. The world that carries on its business while someone cries out in the middle of the street. Some of my experiences in the Big Apple (or the Big A-I lole, as my brother fondly calls it), left me with mixed emotions -- and more often than not with none at all. 1 learned that with every dream there was a nightmare. And for 10 weeks 1 maintained a lovc/hale relation ship with the city that never sleeps. 1 loved going to the Madonna concert. I wanted to see her while I had the opportunity, since the queen of cone breasts and onstage masturbation probably wouldn’t touch Nebraska. I haled the man next to me who said that I really ought to consider volumizing my looks by wearing more war paint, mousse and lots of hairspray. This is the same person who said he felt guilty that he only paid one price to see two great acts. (The opening group was Tech notronic. Pump up tne jam). I loved seeing the highly ac claimed Broadway musical “Grand Hotel ” It was as exciting and glitzy as 1 imagined. I haled walking down 42nd Street and Broadway at 11 p.m. -- the Triple-X showhouses offered a perverse type of “entertainment” that probaoly generated more money than Broadway does right now. lhesmellsoffecesandsex were almost as assaulting as the men who lined the streets screaming, "Oh, blondie, make rne happy’’ or “Mmm, she’s mine.” Even in a group, I still felt horribly violated. See LISA on 11 Brian Sheilito/Daiiy Nebraskan
