Patriotism goes beyond posters
Bill Clinton swooped down into
Iowa on Saturday. He was
more than an hour late, but no
one seemed to care much.
A crowd several thousand strong
seethed patriotism from multiple ori
fices and listened to him stump for
votes at the State Fair
grounds in Dcs Moines.
It was a three-ring cir
cus: Bill, the locals and
the press all had their
own little areas to stand
in. Bill’s was up on a
stage, all decorated with
Iowa com and such. The
people waved signs and
banners, screaming and cheering at
Bill’s every word.
Members of the press lorded over
the whole scene on their little plat
lorm, cameras peering over the mess,
laptop computers at the ready.
The ringmaster’s name was Bart.
Bart gave out press passes. They were
a green, and if you had one you could
scurry around, take notes and pic
tures, climb up on the press riser like
a jungle gym, and you didn’t have to
clap after Bill’s sentences. That was
the importance of being Bart.
I got a press pass from Bart. Bart
was a nice guy. He was no Mother
Theresa or University Operator or
anything, I’m sure. I bet hedidn’t feed
the poor or answer millions of calls
during the last university snow day.
But I had my green pass, and whatever
qIsc Bart did with hisday, like maybe
kick small, furry animals, was no
concern of mine.
It was interesting to sec Clinton in
the flesh. The man, most likely, will
be the next president of the United
States, despite the fact that he says
things such as “mah mama is lough as
a boot.” As of Saturday, President
Bush led the polls in only three slates:
South Carolina, Utah and — Oh! Sur
prise! — Nebraska.
I suppose lhat is one of the reasons
everyone I talked to was rather amazed
to learn I had traveled such a distance,
and from such a state, to see such a
man as Bill Clinton.
“Isn’t Nebraska ... far away?”
asked one local photographer.
But Des Moines didn’t seem like
much of a drive at all. I rode on a bus
for eight hours each way to sec Bush
briefly in St. Louis before the first
presidential debate. He walked out of
his heavily guarded hotel, waved to
the crowd of mostly trucked-in Young
Republicans and took his place beside
Barbara in the back scat of the presi
dential limo.
“Buckle up, George,” I thought I
saw Barbara say through the bullet
proof glass. Then they were away, a
mongo motorcade, the Motorcade of
the Year, full of Secret Service, the
press and more suits than you could
shake a stick at.
And lhat was it. Eight hours.
Bush was somewhat of a strange
sight. His happy, smilc-at-lhc-crowd
face that he keeps in a jar by the door
was molded into his head. It’s an odd,
crooked-mouth, political thing, kind
of a BLECH deal. I would bet the
same face comes out when Bar makes
him cat his greens.
To be fair, Clinton, of course, has
his faces as well. The one I hale the
most is the madc-for-TV, bitc-lhe
lowcr-lip concerned face. This face
accompanies a dramatic pause, as in
“Mah mama,” pause, bile gently on
the lower I ip, “is tough as a boot. And,
by the way, we need change.”
Clinton impressed me Saturday by,
using few laces or dramatic pauses. I
Suppose when experienced politicians
get going, really foaming up there at
the podium, they don’t look quite as
faked as they do on the small and very
narrow screen of television.
But that’s politics for you. The
circuses, the faces, the foam. The
crowds of supporters, cheering in
sanely for a man few of them really
know anything about, bursting with
enthusiasm for merely a name on a
poster.
Only a handful of the Young Re
publicans in the St. Louis crowd had
more than a superficial knowledge of
Bush’s record, his policies, his ideas.
A simi lar perccntagcof the Dcs Moines
horde probably had nothing butClinton
soundbites on which to base their
ardent opinions.
Indeed, the Arkansas governor’s
soundbites must sound good to many
voters. A need to change a thing or
two in this country obviously exists,
and it is this desire Clinton plays
upon, casting himself as some magi
cal change guy.
“This is clearly a race of hope
against fear,” he said Saturday. “The
whole argument of the Bush crowd is
that things could be worse. But my
whole argument is that things could
be belter.”
1 suppose if people believe, for
some odd, twisted reason, that a presi
dent, of all people, actually can make
their lives better, they should vote for
this guy. He seems personable enough.
And I like the melodramatic bilc-thc
lip face better than Bush’s old-lady
BLECH face.
I registered to vote last Friday, and
I’ll be at my neighborhood polling
location Nov. 3. The whole thing in
terests me, in a kind of academic,
trivial, all-American way. I can’t
spend my weekends driving all over
creation to sec these folks and then not
do my part and vote.
But once the big day passes, let’s
put down the posters for a while.
Phelps is a junior news-editorial major,
the Daily Nebraskan wirceditor and acolum
nist.
Sharing secret of playing guitar
About a year ago, I walked de
terminedly into an Austin,
Texas, music store, looking to
buy a guitar.
I didn’t know steel siring from
classical or nylon string. Didn ’l know
what a fret was, in guitar parlance,
that is. Never heard the word fret used
as a noun before.
Regardless of my cursory knowl
edge of guitars and music, .1 bought
-one — a nylon siring. A
mistake! But it was a
cheap mistake.
Walking out of the
store that day, I actually
thought I hail embarked
on some uncharted mu
sical odyssey, learning
to play the guitar from
-scratch at my age. But
now it seems like every third person I
meet is just starling to play the guitar.
There’s a pattern in this some
where. Why do we yearn to play this
instrument or any instrument?
When we were children and our
parents even suggested playing pi
ano, for example, or guitar or trumpet
or clarinet, we weren’t thrilled. The
clarinet I understand. What purpose
in life will anyone ever need with the
skill of playing clarinet? I guess many
people say the same thing about ma
joring in anthropology.
Now, years later in our wisdom,
the first thing we think is: “Dang! I
wish mommy would have let me lake
those lessons. I’d have a record con
tract by now!”
1 have conversations with myself
searching for the reason 1 want to play
guitar. '
“Am I trying to find meaning and
purpose in life through the soothing
sound of guitar music?”
“Am I trying to tap into my latent
creative pool?1*
“Am I looking lor another hobby
or personal conquest?"
“Is it hip these days or globally and
socially correct to play guitar —r.
acoustic guitar, that is?”
I have lo detour here a moment.
When J was in high school, and even
now, when a dude was bent on playing
electric guitar, he was dubbed a social
misfit/deviant and harmful to society’s
acoustic health. ^
But if a person wants lo sit and
wile away hours under a maple tree
strumming an acoustic guitar, that’s
hip.
I say this because most of us know
that the hippest folk on the planet,
self-proclaimed as they arc, arc those
who wear Frankenstein shorts, hooded
Bajas imported from Mexico and dusty
ol’ “slocks” year-round. They shun
all facets of scientific and technologi
cal advancement from pesticides on
grapes to electronics and soap.
These are the people who revel in
acoustic guitar music. I guess country
music lovers do loo, but there’s a
distinct difference.
The latter arc not as conscious, as
earthen, as connected. Pure living. I
don’t understand these things. I just
notice them.
Back to my point. I wanted and still
want lo play the guitar. So for the first
few weeks my fingers fumbled over
the neck of the guitar searching aim
lessly for an E-chord orC-chord, I got
frustrated and several limes thought
about slamming it against the icebox
or kitchen sink.
The guitar was cheap, but not that
cheap.
What’s curious about learning lo
play the guitar is that this attempt at
creativity spills over into other as
pects of your life almost vicariously.
For example, music I never lis
tened to before I found myself gravi
tating lo in record stores or in my
friends’ collections. The music is all
different, yet a common thread among
the songs is that someone deep in the
background or far in the foreground is
playing an acoustic guitar.
So I sit and listen for the chords and
key and all that other stuff saying to
myself: “I wish I could play like that.
Or almost like that, Oial JcasL hilone
or two of the chords they do as
smoothly.”
My determination must be pure
imagination because as I write this,
my guitar is leaning against my iron
ing board. Two week’s volume of
dustdullslhewood’sshiny finish. I’m
sure the musicians I mentioned above
didn’t grow to play the way they do by
letting their guitars collect dust next
to their ironing boards.
Actually, my left hand has learned
to navigate the fretted world of a
guitar neck much better than when I
first started. I’m not as far as I should
be if I were diligent and look the
advice ofall I’ve sought wisdom from,
which is: practice, practice, practice.
Thai’s another one of those by
associalion changes guitar playing
guides you to. Asking For free lessons
in the guise of advice and conversa
tion, considering all the time that
pri vale lessons cost—about S8 to S10
for half an hour.
To get around this expense, I walk
up to anyone I sec playing a guilar and
ask first, how long have you been
playing and next, what’s the secret—
as if there really is secrecy involved
— to building finger speed and chord
progression?
The answers I know because I’ve
asked about 57 people already. Prac
tice! But each lime I’m waiting for
that magical, no-pain/will-gain an
swer from someone who will tell me
with strict assurance:
“Yo.man! I’m for real. Before you
go to bed tonight, tape a guitar pick —
make sure it’s a medium — to your
forehead and another one to the bot
tom of your big toe on your left foot.
‘‘Fall asleep listening to John Lee
Hooker or Tracy Chapman. And in
the morning you’ll be playing‘Talkin’
‘bout a Revolution’ or ‘Sallie Mac’
with your eyes closed.”
Hmmm. When your determina
tion is ha/.y, anything is worth a try.
Moss is a graduate student studying an
thropology and a Daily Nebraskan colum
nist.' -....
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