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About The daily Nebraskan. ([Lincoln, Neb.) 1901-current | View Entire Issue (Dec. 4, 1992)
Regents drive when pigs fly Ch, the open road. Ah, the vast expanses of endlessly enthralling prairie that seem to go by for hours on end with only one halfway decent radio station. Ah, the inflated gasoline prices at roadside pump slops where, for only $5.34, you can get a can of diet cola and a bag of processed cheese puffs for supper. Ah, the interstate high ways where large trucks rumble by at 85 mph, and the two-lane high ways where large trucks piddle along at 40 mph. Yes, I truly love traveling on the open road. And pigs can fly. My little Volkswagen has aver aged about 15,000 miles a year for each of the six years since it rolled off the assembly line. When T riret romn T THTT hometown was a four-hour dri vc west on the interstate, and I went back probably once a month. Then my parents packed up and moved to the southwest comer of Kansas — eight hours of two-lane highways, piddling trucks and end lessly enthralling prairie away from here. Needless to say, I didn’t go home too often. Anyone who’s driven long dis tances alone knows why. Hour 1: Gone only 60 miles. Braked suddenly every time a trooper passed in the other direction. Hour 2: Up to 125 miles. Everyone else is doing 80 mph; screw the troop ers. Hour 3; Pit stop at 200miles. Stretch legs. Refuel. Buy more pop. Hour 4: Another pit stop at 270 miles. Drank pop a little too quickly. Buy another and some chips, loo; what the heck. Hour 5: Only 320 miles. Trucks piddling along two-lane highway at 40 mph. Hour 5 1/2: Another pit slop at 34 5 miles. Right foot asleep. Left sock stuck in heater vent from trying to prop foot on dashboard. Hour 6: Up to 380 miles. All tapes and radio stations boring. Begin talk ing to imaginary passengers. Hour7:Stardalc2783.2345. Weary of travel ing, crew seems to have aban doned sh ip somewhere a long the deso late wasteland. I alone must carry out the mission. Left sock stuck again. Hour 7 1/4: Travel odometer acci dentally erased. Pit slop. Run for bath room without left sock. Hour 8: Arrive home. Fall asleep on front lawn of parent’s house. Sounds like fun, right? And pigs can fly. If pigs did fly, I would charter a pig, perhaps a nice Sowing 747, to lake me home so I could meet with my mnlhf'r anH falhf»r fr»r a r'nr* nf and discuss their performance as par ents. Sure, I’d have to shell out a little more bacon,butdammit, I’d beevalu ating how my parents have performed as parents since they’ve been my par ents. Reaching out and touching some one just isn’t good enough for such a discussion. Plus, we’d talk about important business, like how I need more money since I chartered a pig to fly home. Of course, pigs don’t fly. But regents do. As you probably know, NU Re gents Don B lank of McCook and John Payne of Kearney chartered a plane to fly to the home of Regent Charles Wilson of Lincoln and discuss NU President Martin Masscngalc’s per formance evaluation. No greasy cheese puffs and road side pit stops for these guys, not even that commercial flightcoffeeand little packages of nuts, but an S819 charter flight. I smell pig manure. McCook is four hours from Lin coln as the Volkswagen flics. KcamCy is a mere two-hour drive. Multiply these figures by two if you want to send them back home, which you do. “It just docsn ’t make sense to drive for that long when you can fly,” Payne said. No, but it makes cents. In a time where millions of dollars arc being slashed from the university budget, S819 is chump change. But every little bit helps, especially when this little bit is an unnecessary frivol ity. Sure, the regents work for free and get reimbursed for travel expenses “in conjunction with official duties.” The Nov. 15 meeting was just as official as my trip home for Thanks giving, when I spent nine hours stuffed in an automobile traveling across the state to visit relatives, including my grandfather in the hospital. I could have saved a lot of hours and leg cramps by flying. The regents arc probably too busy to drive, but that’s what the telephone is for. If the regents absolutely had to meet in person, they could drive to some interstate rest area, preferably one with a nice modem art sculpture, to drink coffee, maybe eat some ham sandwiches and evaluate things like the bleak Nebraska prairie. Their expenses couldn’t possibly add up to $819, unless they drove large pig manure trucks at 40 mph. Butlhcymightgct their socks stuck in the dash. Ah, the hazards of driving. Paulman is a senior news-editorial and history major and a photographer and col umnist for the Daily Nebraskan. Finals place law nerds in crisis I am a law school nerd. Because finals start tomor row, I have spent nearly every minute of the last three weeks study ing with other law school nerds. As a group, we arc undoubtedly the most neurotic species of stu dent. For those of you who haven’t been around a law student during finals, take my word for it: We become a pathetic and out-of touch group. The first sicn that we’re going over the edge is when wc think it’s funny to use “legalcse” in our conversations with each other. A few weeks into each semester it’s suddenly fashionably hilarious to say to another law student, “I’ll pick up said pizza at the aforementioned loca tion,” or “Did you willfully, inten tionally and knowingly ingest said libation?” To non-law students wc sound like a bunch of weirdos, which IJ piv;u«uij Uli upi viiuiuvivurum/n, Things gel worse as the semester progresses. The other day, for ex ample, my mother asked me to make a Christmas list. I’m embarrassed to say the only thing I wanted was an other suit for work and some dress shoes to replace the pair I have owned since 9th grade. When I gave my mom the list, she said “Don ’ t you want something that ’s a little more fun?” Sadly enough, in my stale of legal delirium I couldn’t think of anything more exciting than a suit. Even more ridiculous is the fact that when I noticed a couple of lies I liked in a catalog, I thought it was funny to title the subsequent list “Ad dendum and Codicil to the Original Christmas List of Jon C. Bruning.” Without question, I am selling new records for being a nerd. Tuesday night further assured me my brain was soup. I went to play a city league basketball game for the law firm I am clerk for here in town. With a couple of minutes left, one of the opposing players saved a ball and tossed it in my direction at half court. With the grace of a newborn colt I look three dribbles and drove for the uncontcstcd layup. At the peak of my jump—when a brave soul may have even been able to slide a Hastings phone book under my feet — I heard my teammates scream, “NO!” It was then I realized I was shooting at the wrong end. I missed the layup but got the assist when one of the opposing players lipped it in. When I showed up at the office everyone was all smiles. The firm’s weekly newsletter, which is distrib uted to nearly 100 attorneys, parale gals and support staff, had detailed the story of my stupidity and dubbed me “Wrong Way Jon.” 1 think “mo ron” or “idiot” may have fit just as well, but “wrong way” has a fairly satisfying ring to it. In the brief but _l_!_I__ __ I ...Ao gllil 1UU3 1 IIIVIV, 1 WU.1 asked things like “Did you have any trouble finding your way here?” and “Why didn’t a lead-footed guy like you figure something was strange when you saw how wide-open you were?” The explanation behind my ath letic prowess is two-fold. First, I have inherited the capacity for greatness from my father, who lead the 1957-59 Class D-2 Bruning Bears to three straight winlcss seasons. While I have never led an athletic team in anything, the tradition of the defeated Bears has always been a cherished family ath letic tradition. Second, of course, is the gray jello that fills my head this time of year. The love of my life is a jealous mis tress called the law, and even the joy of sport can’t completely clear my head of nonsensical jibberish. The dreams are another odd part of finals month. I know I’m in high gear when nearly every night I dream about the Constitution or the grades I’ve received on various exams. Many of my classmates experience the same dreams. The grades arc probably the most frequent subject and the most fun to dream about. I always get fan tastic scores when I’m sleeping. It’s disappointing to wake up and realize I didn’tactually get five A pluses. I’ve also had presidents, professors and judges show up in my dreams, which makes for strange combinations. Imagine Chief Justice Rchnquist and Lyndon Johnson sucking down beers at Ole’s Big Game Tavern in Paxton. While there’s no town I’d rather be in, it’s somewhat demented to imagine the chief justice in his black robe with a Schlilz in his hand. All in all, the life of a law student is great. If we didn’t feel the need to study 15 hours a day during the final month of every semester, we might even be normal. Unfortunately, the volume and the depth of the material is so huge it lakes countless hours to figure out what material is valuable and what material is worthless. Coupled with the typical procrastina tion factor, the last month becomes a paranoid scramble to survive. There is a benefit to our personal disintegration, however. Those of you who view lawyers as scum-sucking bottom dwellers can take special plea sure at the sight of a sniveling shell of a student in the library staring blankly from behind an evidence book. Take pleasure in the thought that it m ight be a law student. More important, count your blessings that you had the fore sight to avoid law school and the semiannual drift into the land of the nerds. Brunlng Is a second-year law student and a Dally Nebraskan columnist. 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