Cigs key to laid-back lifestyle
If you start down the road of real
life, you can easily end up bitter
and burnt out. People expect
you to do things like vacuum or have
kids or some strange combination of
the two that courts have ruled is ille
gal in most states.
Fortunately, there are a few free
spirits floating around who don’t ac
cept the artificial dichotomy of “em
ployed” and “unemployed” that evil
society forces upon us.
Yes, a gray area lies between the
destitute and the successful — a
warped lifestyle in which existence
means something more than the 9-to
5 drudgery of owning major appli
ances.
Usually it means hanging around
communes while in various stages of
getting a job at Amigos. It means
heading down to the plasma center
every couple of days and putting in a
couple hours of hard donating. It
means waiting on hold for hours to
talk to Harris Labs.
It means living life the way it was
meant to be lived, damn it.
The commune in which I reside is
a halfway house for exactly this type
of modem-day Renaissance man. In
my time, I’ve learned a thing or two
about the good life, where body fluids
mean money for smokes.
A good way to tell what kind of day
freebirds are having is to look at what
brand of cigarettes they ask for from
each other.
At the top o’ the chart is Black
Death, the most expensive brand of
smokes in common circulation among
members of the subculture.
If someone is smoking Black Death,
you know he is living the high life.
Harry Slab’s ship just docked and the
money cargo is being unloaded. No
more hardtack — just hardpacks,
baby. Light ‘em up. Hell, smoke two
at once. It’s on Harry.
A commune-mate of mine once
bought a whole carton of the skull
"When I get a lot
of money, I’m
going to go back
to Winston,’’
Gabe often says.
But then, he also
says things such
, as, “I’m going to
look for a job
tomorrow.”
festooned gimmicky death sticks.
Apparently Black Deaths have more
tar than other smokes. They aren’t as
harsh as Marlboros. Actually, they
taste rather wimpy, but in a smooth
sort of way.
I like it best when my commune
mates are smoking Marlboros.
Marlboros mean life is fine. The
Marlboro is the cigarette of stability,
of peace, harmony and, of course,
adventure. Sit back. Breathe it in.
Accidentally knock over the ashtray.
It’s OK — you* ve got a pack of Reds
in your pocket and extra butane on the
shelf. Ahhhhhh.
But when the Marlboro man is
strapped for cash, he can get by on
Full Flavor, the smoker’s cheap, sat
isfying savior. I don’t quite under
stand that name, myself. Cigarettes
don’t have that great of a flavor. Ac
tually, they taste a lot like smoke.
Below Full Flavor lies the depths
of Rainbow Brand cancer sticks, the
kind one finds at Super Saver. But at
least they match our Rainbftw Brand
toilet paper and tortilla chips.
Unfortunately, there are times when
the lungmasters can’t scrape up even
enough to make it to the pot o’ gold
that is Rainbow. But if a person looks
around the commune long enough,
there’s usually a stupid girl or two
with a menthol or “light” cig, or some
extra-long-lookin’ sucker—anything
to feed that Frankenstein.
For a time, I thought that was the
complete hierarchy of smokes: Black
Death, Marlboro, Full Flavor, Rain
bow and — if you’re desperate —
Girly Cigs. But then we met the great
est cigarette scavenger of them all. To
protect his identity, I will call him by
a random name — say, “Gabe.”
Oddly enough, the random name
that popped into my head happens to
be Gabe’s real name. He stops by the
commune most every night from about
seven to close — although he missed
two shifts last week and we fired him.
But that didn’t phase Gabe. He
grew up surviving the hood I live in
now. He’s streetwise, he’s cunning
and he smokes some creation called
Private Stock, which he buys at M&S
Salvage Grocery on 27th Street.
“When I get a lot of money, I’m
going to go back to Winston,” Gabe
often says. But then, he also says
things such as, “I’m going to look for
a job tomorrow.”
Then Gabe will chuckle, light up a
Private Stock, crack open a Black
Label beer and watch one of the two
television channels we receive at my
house since the sneaky cable bandits
took our box away.
Ah, life. Drink it in, thralls.
Phelps is a junior news-editorial major,
the Daily Nebraskan managing editor and a
columnist.
Flying J is bed-tosser’s dream
Ilove to sleep. I treasure sleep.
Sleep is my passion, my best
friend, my reason for waking.
But I never sleep anymore. Col
lege has wreaked havoc with my inner
clock. I get one good night’s sleep —
total — every semester if I’m lucky.
Each morning when my alarm,
like so many Nazi storm troopers,
wrenches me from slumber, only one
thought keeps me from tears—in just
19 to 20 hours, I can sleep again.
So I get up and plow through my.
daily ritual. All day I think, 12 more,
10 more, three more hours to go.
But lately, I’ve been having aprob
lem.
Three a.m. arrives like clockwork.
I’m ready to shut down for the day.
My pajamas are on. Teeth brushed.
Prayers said. I close my eyes with an
audible sigh. And then it happens.
Nothing. Just nothing. Ican’tsleep.
So I lie there for a while in a com
pletely dissatisfying state of semi
unconsciousness, teetering on the
brink of sleep, close enough to peer in
and hear the rest of the hemisphere
snore peacefully.
• I try counting sheep, thinking sleepy
thoughts. Flannel sheets and easy
listening music. Four-hour chemistry
labs and Nyquil.
No dice. '
If I lie there long enough, I start to
believe that I’m the only one alive in
the whole town, state — possibly the
entire region.
I’ve become deeply depressed and
very tired. Lonely.
A few weeks ago, I could stand it
no longer. I went on a search for
humanity. For life.
I tried most of the Lincoln’s 24
hour establishments. I tried Super
Saver. After an hour or so, I didn’t
care to know who needed Cool Ranch
Doritos and cocktail wieners at 2 a.m.
Kinko’s was OK, but I can only
make so many copies before the smell
* of hot ink gives me a headache.
I searched on. Convenience stores.
The health center's urgent care. Late
night TV. Finally, I gave up searching
for nocturnal civilization.
And then, last Sunday, I found it.
Somewhere
between Lincoln
and Omaha, east
of Eden and west
of Shangri-La, I
found an
insomniac’s
paradise.
.. in the damdest place.
My brother and his best friend
were driving me back to Lincoln after
a sleepless weekend in the Big O. We
made it to the Ashland exit when the
Subaru made a strange noise — kind
of a bang.
My mechanically oriented com
panions informed me that one of the
back tires blew. They also told me that
—unlike jet airplanes that can still fly
with two engines or even one — cars
need all four tires to keep moving.
We each got out of the car, walked
around a few times to confirm that the
tire was indeed flatand that, yes, we’d
have to walk.
And walk wedid,along theedgeof
the interstate until we saw — in the
distance — a sign. We kept walking
toward that sign through the cold and
the dark and die cold.
On the way, I decided that I’d
rather have a root canal than be passed
by a semi-truck. All the trucks were
out last Sunday, and they were having
a contest—who can drive the closest
to Rainbow without actually running
her over?
We walked for hours on the 1-80
treadmill,butthesigndidn’tgetcloser.
We gave up trying to make progress
and passed the lime spotting shapes
that could be mistaken for dead bod
ies in the roadside brush.
When the sign realized we didn’t
care about it and started looking for
other unlucky pedestrians to tease, we
stormed toward it, catching it off guard
and forcing it closer.
The Fly ing J. A truck stop. A phone.
An hour or so before my mom came to
cart us back tocivilizauon. We ran the
rest of the way.
We arrived breathless and frostbit
at The Flying J. Without a pause to
scope the place out, we ran in.
I was Dorothy after the tornado,
Alice in Wonderland.
Somewhere between Lincoln and
Omaha, east of Eden and west of
Shangri-La, I found an insomniac’s
paradise.
Open 24 hours every day, The Fly
ing J has a grocery store, showers, a
buffet restaurant, dozens of carpeted
phone booths, an arcade, a hqge, cable
equipped TV and — get this — a
three-person shoeshine station. A
shoeshine station! Those truck driv
ers must really scuff up their foot
wear.
As with all incredibly good things,
there is a catch. Just anyone can’t
enjoy The Flying J. Many of the more
posh and exciting features are re
served for professional drivers.
I have a car, but I still don’t know
how to drive. I now have incentive to
learn. If I can just master those pedals,
I’ll have someplace to go at 4 a.m.
I won’t have to be alone. I can
enjoy a roast beef dinner — all I care
to eat. I can play Street Fighter Two
until my fingertips bleed. I can get my
shoes shined!
Kinko’s, Super Saver and dozens
of breakfast restaurants should bow
their heads in shame. I have found the
king, the queen, the entire royal fam
ily of 24-hour establishments. And
ir sail mine if I just learn how to drive.
Rowell la a Junior news-editorial, adver
Using and English major and a Dally Nebras
kan columnist.
Yell Squad Tryouts
Open to any males or females
interest in trying out.
Attend information meeting at the
Devaney Sports Center Track Area
SUN., Feb. 28, 5 p.m. J
Open gym 6-9 p.m. following meeting.
Come see what cheering
for the Huskers is all about!
If unable to attend or if you have any questions contact:
Renee - 476-3397 or Norma - 472-2273__
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SIGMA CHI
FIGHpfflGHT
I
\
Friday, April 23,1993
Coliseum
State Fairgrounds
Anyone interested in boxing
should contact Bob Meyer
at the SIGMA CHI HOUSE
or at 436-7051
