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About The daily Nebraskan. ([Lincoln, Neb.) 1901-current | View Entire Issue (Nov. 30, 1992)
Shirtless Manilow gets axed Barry Manilow has good cause lo be a litile hot under the collar. Authorities in Kuala Lumpur, the capital of Malaysia, canceled his re cently sold-out concert appearances there for fcaif the American singer mightriphisshirtoffon stage, thus violating lo cal decorum. It’s not some off-the wall apprehension. Ap parently, the Malaysians warned both Hammer and Color Me Badd, two other U.S. acts, to re main fully clothed, but the shirts flew away anyhow. So when Manilow came rockin’ into town, of ficials didn ’ t want to lake any chances, and they axed him. A strange thought indeed is the picture of Manilow threatening to throw clothing to a teeming crowd. He’s never been known to real ly break it down and get funky. But then, no one around here has heard from him in a while, and maybe his style changed while he traipsed about places like Malaysia. Actually, 1 thought he disappeared in that earthquake that sucked Abba under the planet’s surface. But per haps he survived. Perhaps he’s been brooding all these years, quietly hum ming, “I Write the Songs,” slurping down kamika/cs and slowly gelling into “Wildman” Manilow. “Here I comes, Malaysia!” he screamed, buttons spinning around the yard as he pulled off his shirt. “Git ready lo sec some skin! Roar!” There is a lot to be said for per forming without a shirt. It seems lo be all the rage in these lawless limes. A friend of mine invited me to go to Minneapolis during break to sec Donny Osmond without a shirt. He’s touring with a production of the mu sical “Joseph and His Amazing Technicolor Drcamcoat.” I didn’t go, but I thought about it. After all, this is Donny Osmond — he’s a little bit country. Or is he a little bit rock ‘n’ roll? I suppose it doesn’t matter when you’re not wearing a shirt. Then you can be anything you want— say, a lot rock ‘n’ roll and no country or even the other way around. I, myself, once performed without a shirt in a local production of the same musical Donny is prancing in up north. Donny, of course, snagged the part of “Joseph,” the lead, whereas I was only “Egyptian Guard.’’The great thing was there were no shirts in volved in “Egyptian Guard,’’justspar kling headgear and tan shorts. I also got to pretend to play a guitar shaped like an ankh when the Pharaoh sang. Sometimes I look back on the time I spent in frontof those audiences, my shirt nowhere to be found, perhaps blocks away, for all I knew. Someone could have taken it or burned it as I was on stage or hoisted it to the lop of some flagpole. All 1 had was that huge ankh in my hands. No shirt to weigh me down! It was summertime. The golden rays of the sun cut through the sky to my skin, and no sh irt impeded them. I could ’ ve just taken off right there, run away, rambled on, a free bird. I might have given the ankh to some trucker in exchange for a lift to the coast. Me and my sequined head gear on a walkabout. My shirt hun dreds of miles away and counting. Oh, yes, I know. 1 know what Barry was contemplating as he considered doing the Malaysia gig topless, with no shirt to constrict his aura. That scenario, however, is hard for me to swallow. I feel as though I know Barry, and I can’t sec him being quite so bold. In my younger days, I heard a lot of Barry because my mom used to play his albums quite a bit. After a while, it grew on me. I suppose you might call me a closet Manilow fan — but don’t worry, 1 joined a support group here in town. I’m not talking aboutBarry’s weird 1980s stuff. What I, and probably a silent majority of Americans, like is the 1970s Barry, the Barry we used to hear crooning on old AM radios. Clas sic Barry. Young Barry, starting out in New York City, ready to write the songs that make the whole world sing. No one can forget tunes such as “Copacabana.” I can remember pic turing the story in my mind: Poor Lola, sitting in the holiest spot north of Havana, watching as Tony and Rico duked it out. And then the punches flew. Chairs were smashed in two. There was blood and a single gunshot, but just who shot who? I still wonder, to this day. It saddens me to know that Barry has to go so far from home to have a sellout concert. There were years when Manilowmania would have filled ven ues across this measly country, but I guess those times are gone. It’s Kuala Lumpur or nothing these days. I would bet if Donny Osmond trekked down to Malaysia, no one would bat an eye. He could dance around in that Amazing Coat of his with no shirt at all, blowing bugles on his ice skates or whatever, and people wouldn’t be so upset. But if Barry joined the cast as say, an Egyptian Guard, then all hell would break loose. The real problem is Hammer and Color Me Badd ruined it for Barry. They are the ones who should be punished. Maybe the authorities could confiscate Color Me Badd’s extra “d” or banish Hammer to Lake Edna. They shouldn’t take out frustrations on Barry. He has enough frustrations of his own. Maybe I’ll invite Barry to come to our support group. I’d give that man the shirt off my back. Phelps is a junior news-editorial major, the Daily Nebraskan wire editor and a colum nist. B-ball shows cultural differences Finally, football season is wan ing, making way for the planet’s true sport — basket ball. The sport is sensational in its prow ess, but I have always found it diffi cult to watch on television. After all, how many times can you watch Michael Jordan juke a whole team with one of his magical moves and say: “Wow! Unbelievable!” He’s done it so many limes now, believe it. 1 don’t think I have I.Jcvcr watched an entire basketball amc on the tube. Thai’s because I’ rather play than watch. So that’s where this week’s col umn lifts off. It’s about the culture of basketball and how most white dudes and black dudes see and play it differently be cause of cultural reasons. I ain’t kidding. I’ve been playing ball for years and have noticed a few things. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t traveled around the country gathering information or anything, but I’ve played in a lot of different cities and neighborhoods and cross-sectionally I’ve noticed patterns. First off is the parlance on the court. “Dime” is a smooth pass. “He got popcomcd,” means an offensive player fakes a jumper and the de fender jumps up like a popcorn ker nel. Clever, eh? Instead of a jumper, you can take your man “to the cup,” (drive on him) and “flush on him,” (dunk), if you “sky” (jump) high enough, that is. Or if the inside is loo clogged for that, shoot the paradoxical layup or long-range jumper on your man. But make sure someone is underneath to rebound “the pill” (basketball) if you miss. Who knows, if you make enough shots your team will keep “feeding” (passing) you ihc ball, but if you “brick” (miss) a lot, well... From the vast sample group I have observed, I’ve noticed that the differ ences in play have little to do with physical prowess. When 1 was a teen-ager, a lot of the white dudes I knew who played ball had goals in their driveways. They would hang out shooting jumpers on their shiny rims and taut nets all day. Soon they became automatic. These were the dudes in high school who would make 25 out of 25 free throws with their eyes closed but would miss wide-open layups four out of five times. We didn’t have private basketball rims in our driveways. Actually, many of us didn’t even have driveways. So by default, we were sort of forced to play with other people all the lime in pick-up games at one of the neighbor hood courts. The courts were OK, but the rims never had nets. That didn’t stop us, though, and when one of us shot a sweet jumper that sailed straight through the rim we’d yell, “SWISH!” for sound effects. It wasn’t until high school that I learned basketball theory, as I call it. Selling picks, screening out your man, zone defense, switching up, all those things you do without the ball. Before then, we just ran and dribbled around until someone was open to get the pass or the shot. Pick or screen and zone defense? Those concepts were as distant to us as the twilight zone. It was man-to-man where we played, and you got open the best way you could. What about people wailing for next game? The etiquette there was to walk on the court and yell, “I got next!” Then you would hear someone on the other side of the gym yell, “I got next!” Then another dude would yell the same thing. After a heated debate, one of the three finally ended up having “next." We didn ’ t shoot for the next four or five or three or sign a “next sheet.” Like Manifest Destiny, you just HAD next, and you picked your team; hope fully the best team of the day because once you sat down among the 15 or so other dudes waiting to play, that was it. Time to go home and watch basket ball. One of the last cultural differences I find most intriguing is the shirt/skin dichotomy. One team wears shirts, the other team no shins. No doubt it’s a reasonable way to decipher which guys arc on your team. But, I don’t dig playing without a shin. That’s because when I grew up, we never played shirt/skins. Never. Some how, like a sea lion knows her cubs, we knew who the five dudes were on our team even if we all had on white shirts. The first time I did play shirts/ skins and some dude told me to take off my shirt, 1 thought it was peculiar. It’s just a hypothesis that culture is at the root of different styles of bas ketball play, but it has merit. Why aren’t there more black ten nis, hockey and golf players? The answer to that is rooted in economics and culture. Ah! How refreshing to welcome hoop season. Aside from the pure beauty of the game, b-ball is a won derful way to shoo away these aca demic blues we all get about this time of the school year. I enjoy playing the game. Hey, you may see me over in the rec center one day running in and around a bunch of dudes yelling: “Feed me the pill, feed me the pill!” And see, without the insight of this column on the cultural aspect of the sport, you probably would have thought: “Look at that dude, man. What an odd way to take medicine!” Muss is a graduate student studying an thropology and a Daily Nebraskan colum nist. The University Lutheran Chapel wants to wish everyone a very BLESSED CHRISTMAS! Sunday Worship Experience: 9A I1 a. m. Spiritual Growth Opportunities Offered Every Day of the Week t University Lutheran Chapel On the N. W. 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